


Elysian

by wonderlou



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Almost death, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Anal Sex, Beast!Harry, Belle!Louis, Brief Harrassment, Fairy Tale Elements, Fighting, Fluff, Just about everyone else is furniture, Kidnapping, LITERALLY, M/M, Size Difference, larry stylinson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-18 01:31:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 81,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2330309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderlou/pseuds/wonderlou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What could be it, Niall?” Harry asks gently with a sigh. He slouches down further into his chair, crossing his arms lazily across his chest. He is bored. He has been bored for five years straight, but even more so now that his one interest has shut himself out entirely. Harry had not even heard from Louis, not since last night, not since he had gotten on his nerves so much that he was torn between knocking him out and smiling in surrender to the slight awe he felt. Louis is opinionated like no one he’s ever seen, but his voice is honeyed; high-pitched and indignant. Harry is nothing short of entranced.</i>
</p><p>Or, Harry is running out of time to fall in love, but with Louis, it seems as if there’s all the time in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **This is very important so please read!**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Obviously, I do not own Harry or Louis or Niall, Liam, and Zayn. I don't own Lux, Lou, and the Tomlinson's. I created, like, only a tiny handful of the characters in this fic. I do not own the plot to this story, although I know that I have created some of my own conflicts and situations.**
> 
> I. This fic is based off of the Disney movie Beauty and The Beast. It's not precisely right regarding the time period; I modernized it just a tad bit for the convenience of everybody! Also, I just don't exactly know much about the time period where this occurred. The books that Louis reads may not be in the exact time, either, although I did try my best to research the time the books were written/published.
> 
> II. Louis is French. Harry is French. They're all French. This is based in a French society. I'll be emphasizing it in a few italicized terms that I, admittedly, will Google Translate, but they'll speak English because that's just about the only language I know and it's just easy. If anyone will ever want to translate this fic, all I ask is that you ask me.
> 
> III. I'm not "copying" this entire movie. The plot follows, yes, but I will not be following the story line scene for scene. Sure, there will be some things that you'll expect. But there also will be things that I am creating entirely on my own, aside from the help I get from Ben Howard, Bon Iver, and David Levithan.
> 
> IV. The title of this fic is from the word elysian, which: " **Elysian; adj. :** of, relating to, or characteristic of heaven or paradise." There you have it, folks.

                Harry had not been raised to be an overindulged child. He had been brought up like every other male in the Styles’ family had: he was taught literature and arithmetic as soon as he could speak in full sentences, and he was never sent out of the mansion and into town, for the King and Queen did not want their son to be acquainted with those of a much lower social class. Even with his parents’ refusal to let him wander into the woods with the other curious, young boys in the village, Harry was very social with those who worked for the Royal Family.

Harry had a couple of friends within the mansion walls: there was Liam, who had been born to one of the maids and raised in a small home no more than a hundred yards away from the mansion. Even though Liam walked to the school in town every morning, he came to work with his mother every afternoon, and once Harry finished reading his daily twenty-five minutes of Shakespeare, the Queen allowed the two young boys to play in the garden as long as they stayed off of the fresh mulch.

Niall Horan was the son of the mansion’s baker, and Harry didn’t see much of him. He went to the same school as Liam, for Harry had seen them walking side by side many times. He chose staying after school to play kickball with the other boys over helping his father bake, but Harry had been told that Niall got to taste the sweets his dad baked because he brought the extra scraps home after work.

Harry had his two friends, and even though his they had many more boys to play with at the school in town, Harry was a very content boy. A sweetheart, as the Queen would call him; he was quite a young man to his father.

When he grew into his teens, when ugly pimples speckled the skin between his eyebrows, Harry grew a little bratty, growing to hate sitting atop the kitchen counter while watching his dinner being made. He was very picky, tearing apart his room in spite of his bed not being made wrinkle-free and throwing away untouched food if it wasn’t cooked to his liking. He took advantage of his ability to not have to lift a finger, lazing around and leaving his belongings in places that the staff had a hard time keeping up with.

When he got a new bike at age thirteen, he hadn’t wanted to share it with his two friends at all, resorting to hiding it deeper within the rose bushes with every drawn-out ‘please’ to come out of Niall’s mouth.

“I’ll ask my papa to give you extra biscuits after dinner!” The Irishman’s cracking, bright voice had reasoned. “Even the tiny ones that look like little, teeny-tiny cakes!” Harry had shaken his head for the seventh time, crossing his skinny arms over his broadening chest.

“I get whatever I want!” He’d boasted, a smirk on his lips. “My papa can tell yours to bake me _a whole cake_ if I wanted one!”

The King and Queen noticed, and they were not quite sure how their son had taken such a sharp turn into a person who could be no leader when they resigned. While they recognized Harry’s selfishness and rudeness, they labelled it as their son simply being a teenager, diagnosing it as something that he would grow out of. He was just being a boy, and when Liam and Niall generously gave their crushes cheap chocolate on Saint Valentine’s Day while Harry called his tutor’s daughter names, that was brushed off as well.

On the day after his eighteenth birthday, Harry sent his parents out the house, insisting that he have just a few hours alone to hang out with Niall and Liam. The King had agreed while his wife was reluctant to leave the three young men alone in such a big home, and at eight o’clock sharp, Harry was locking all four of the locks that were placed on the door, trapping out the harsh wind and freezing rain.

He quickly moved towards one of the narrow, rectangular windows on either side of the double wooden doors, watching his father help his mother into the carriage. It was a little hard to see through the rain that seemed to fall at an angle, branch-breaking wind causing the two horses at the front of the carriage to stir nervously. With a giddy cry, Harry turned away from the windowpane, running a hand through his hair.

“Niall, go get the fancy champagne from Father’s office!” He exclaimed, rubbing his hands together before shucking off his shoes. After looking around to make sure the workers were out of sight, likely on their dinner breaks, Harry added a, “And make sure you avoid the staff!” His mate nodded before taking off down the hall, tripping over his own feet.

“Whatever you say, man!” he cried with a cackle, turning a sharp corner and disappearing down the corridor and towards the left wing of the mansion.

Harry then turned to Liam, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Liam had always been a bit of a killjoy, so it was no surprise when Harry saw him perched against one of the pillars in the foyer, his bottom lip worried between his teeth.

“You’re not going to be another bloody bore, are you?” Harry asked very seriously, sauntering over to Liam and pulling him from the column. He held up a finger before a ‘ _well…_ ’ could leave his mate’s mouth, shaking his head. He did not want to hear it; he got the same excuse every time. “That was rhetorical. Don’t be a loser. Drink with Niall and I.”

“It’s the King’s special champagne for a reason, Harry,” Liam said with a stern tone, drawing his wrists away from Harry’s grasp. “I will not be drinking because my mum will kill me, but I’ll gladly supervise you and Niall.”

“Your mum is on the second floor, and she doesn’t have to know,” Harry insisted, but he stopped trying with a shrug of his shoulders, making his way into the family room. “Besides, it’s just my dad – like I give a damn what he thinks. You can just play cards with us, you fucking bore,” he said with a smirk.

“You know your mother hates it when you swear,” Liam whined, and Harry could nearly hear the roll of his eyes. “At least _try_ to act a _little bit_ like a gentleman, will you?”

“ _No one cares how you act when you’re as wealthy as I am_.”

                                                                                                **//**

                Ten o’clock rolled around much after Harry’d gotten drunk enough to be unable to play another round of cards, careless and fuzzy. The mixture of wind and freezing rain continued to pound against the wide windows in the family room, sounds like broken tree branches hitting the roof. Niall sang loudly as if to mask the destruction, some old Irish tune he had learned when he was young and had lived in the country, but it only gave Harry more of a headache. He laid back on the couch with the back of his neck against the arm rest, the crook of his elbow draped over his eyes. He was feeling good. When the dull throbbing behind his eyes and the too-sweet taste on his tongue was excluded, he was feeling pretty powerful in a big house with no parents to whine and gripe about how he wasn’t a grateful child.

Harry was about to drift off to the sound of cards being shuffled between the two boys who sat on the floor next to the couch when the doorbell rang, the slow sound of the tune carrying throughout the nearly-empty house. Harry groaned and got up, stepping around Niall and Liam’s game of cards.

“Would you like me to see who it is, sir?” The voice of one of the workers quietly joined Niall’s singing: a short little elder who set the table for every breakfast, lunch, teatime, and dinner. Harry was particularly fond of her, more so than some of the other staff, so he offered her a little smile to mask his annoyance, shaking his head.

“No, thank you, Judith, I’ll get it,” he grumbled, scrubbing his face with both of his palms. “Once the storm clears up, you can go home.” Harry recalled that Judith’s daughter had two twin sons out of wedlock and that Judith helped care for them, babysat them and read them to bed. He smiled again, a little tighter. “I understand that your grandsons must be a little worried. It’s past their bedtime and their grandmum is not yet home.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Judith said excitedly. “I’ve been reading Snow White to them for quite some time, now.” She smoothed her hands along her cotton smock, her skinny fingers shaking ever so slightly. “If you’re sure, I’ll grab my things and head out right now. I imagine that the storm isn’t going to lighten up in the near future, so I think I’d like to leave before I get stuck in it.”

The doorbell rang again. Harry wanted to punch a wall.

Instead, he gritted his teeth, bowing his head. “Take your time, Judith. And have a nice night.” He hardly heard her ‘ _goodnight, sir_ ’ and her hasty exit before he was heading out of the family room and into the foyer.

He could not see out of the side windows when he checked to see who it was, due to all the rain, so he opened the door, shielding himself partly with it. He grew cold very quickly, so he curled in a little on himself, arms cradling his sides. He squinted at the dark shadow in front of him, blinking until he could identify the shape as a human.

“What do you want?” Harry said, and he didn’t completely intend for the question to come out as rough and snappy as it did. The person’s arms – Harry could not yet tell whether it was a male or female – lifted and pulled off the hood to a dark, heavy coat, exposing wet and matted brown hair that fell past the shoulders.

Harry took a step back once he could see the person’s face. It was a woman with grey skin and even greyer eyes, a long, crooked nose to match her crooked back as she hunched over. She smelled of dirt and waste and burnt bread. Harry couldn’t even guess the age – she _had_ to be at least sixty, _had_ to be poor and insignificant and horrible to match Harry’s judgment.

To Harry, she was hideous. She didn’t even deserve the luxury of placing her dirty, bare feet on the straw mat in front of the door. He wanted to close it on her and go back to being tipsy and happy.

“ _Please_ ,” was the first thing to come out of her mouth, startling Harry. Her voice, like the rest of her, was hard to acknowledge, scratchy and low and painful to Harry’s ears. “I need a place to stay,” she continued. “The storm is much too strong for me to stay outside tonight. I’m very cold and very hungry.”

“Absolutely not. No.” Harry shook his head, closing the door just a tad. From behind him, he heard Liam calling his name questionably, but he ignored him, his tone cold as he spoke to the woman. “There’s no reason for you to be here. How dare you even come here, thinking I’d let you in?”

For whatever reason, the woman slowly shook her head, snaking a hand into the sleeve of her coat. She pulled out a bright red rose with a long, dark green stem, holding it out to Harry. “All I can give you is this rose, but please. I’m begging you, boy, and I warn you not to be so quick to judge an individual because of how they look. Beauty comes from within.”

“ _Prince_ ,” Harry corrected bitterly, narrowing his eyes. He was a prince and he was not about to be placed into a social class of any lower value, and, more particularly, he was not a _boy_. He shook his head again, backing up so he would not be in the way of the door when he closed it. He heard thunder in the distance. He disregarded her warning with a huff. “Go to the town. I’m not too sure who will be willing, but someone ought to take you in for a few hours.”

Harry was all of two moments away from completely closing the door on the woman when a light from outside came close to blinding him, causing him to curse and swing open the door. “What the fuck–” he began, covering his eyes through loosely spaced fingers, but he was quickly cut off when the light dimmed down into a soft glow. It reflected off of the rain, causing it to appear to be silver, and it showered down solely on the front porch, over the woman’s body.

He grew speechless. The elderly lady seconds before was no longer a sixty-something-year-old mess of dirt and wrinkly skin, but a tall, thin, young woman draped in green robes. She held the rose, still, between her nimble fingers, a disapproving frown on her face. She was gorgeous, needless to say, and Harry didn’t know where to stare.

“You are selfish,” she said, short and matter-of-fact, and Harry would have scoffed if he hadn’t been so awestruck. She sighed. “You have been selfish and very unkind, so I have no choice. Take this rose. When someone has learned to love you for your looks, and if you truly love them, then the spell will be completely broken. However, when every petal on this rose falls, you will be a beast forever, and no one will love you.”

Harry did not think he would have been able to understand what the woman was saying even if she had explained herself several times over. He didn’t think he would have a problem getting someone to love him for his looks, though, was what he wanted to say, for he knew he was adored by many. He had heard about spells, however, and while he was still unsure as to whether or not he wanted to believe in magic, he was not about to take a shot in the dark and wind up stuck with whatever this woman was threatening him with. The word _beast_ didn’t appeal to him at all.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, hesitantly reaching out to take the rose. He held it gently in his hand, brushing his thumb along the fresh, healthy stem. “Shit, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Miss. You can come in, I’ve just got some friends over, come, I–”

“Enough.” With that, the young lady began to speak in French, words Harry fluently knew but didn’t catch because she was talking much too fast. As she spoke, she started to back down the steps with more grace than Harry had ever seen. He only stared, and when the lady was done with her mantra, she turned around, her back to Harry. “I wish you luck, Prince Harry.”

Harry watched her walk away, watched her disappear into the woods. He was able to notice how she wasn’t getting wet, that she seemed to be glowing, before his vision blurred a little, head feeling a little fuzzier than before. He felt as if his skin was stretching, and when he stared down at the hand that wasn’t holding the rose, he found it calloused and large, fingernails yellow and cracked.

This was not his hand.

Harry felt around his face and found his hair down by his shoulders, mangy and tangled and gross-feeling. He felt the scrape of teeth along his gums, and when he felt at them with rough fingers, they were long and sharp, crooked and _wrong_. His cheeks and chin and jaw had scars on them, prominent and hard.

This was not him.

Harry clutched the rose tightly enough so that the thorns would have cut his skin if his hands were as soft and smooth as they had been just minutes before. He quickly closed the door and stormed inside with his arms shielded over his face, stumbling straight past Liam, who seemed to have been glancing nervously into the foyer from the entrance to the family room.

“Get out!” Harry shouted, blindly making his way down the hall and towards the west wing. His voice was deep, deeper than normal; scary. “Get out, everyone get out! Get out!”

“Harry, Li, what the fuck?” Niall sounded worried from somewhere far off. “Why’m I- _ce qui dans monde?_ I’m all hot, and- _Harry!_ Liam, help!”

“Niall!” This time it was Liam’s voice. There were other shouts and exclamations coming from places within the mansion, and Harry knew that something was happening to the staff, but he could not be bothered. He locked himself in the closest room he could find, his own, and locked the door, sinking back against the wall.

This was not him.

                                                                                                **//**

                Five years later, Harry sits in the office that once belonged to his father, his legs pulled up onto the window seat as he gazes out of the small square of glass. It’s sunny outside, but Harry knows it’s still very cold, for the dark clouds slowly roll in from the north and the wind causes melting snow to fall from the naked trees. He thinks he can hear the sound of children playing near the old well, but that can’t be right, because no one ever comes near the house. Their parents have told them what will happen if they enter the gates, or even come close. For this reason, the mansion is silent like it always is. The staff is silent, his old friends are silent.

Everything is silent, and everything is lonely, and Harry is not happy. He is hated. He is scary. He is unknown.

He has disappeared.

But this hour is a good one, for he is relatively normal, intimidating but not hideous. He knows that in no more than a mere half hour, he will be back in hiding, locked up in his trashed bedroom. He figures he should leave his father’s office because it still feels wrong to him, regardless of all the time he has had to get used to it. His father has not come back in five years, nor has his mother. He should be used to this, but he is not.

The one silent token he has of that one night is the rose that sits in the far corner of his bedroom, casting a soft, pink glow within its little space. It is enchanted, spinning and floating and sparkling, a reminder that Harry is using his time poorly. He does not look at it when he goes into his room – he covers it with a velvet throw.

When he keeps it covered, the reality of it all seems a little more unbelievable.

Placing his socked feet on the hardwood floor, Harry presses that thought out of his mind like he does every day, making up another excuse to leave the room: he needs to get something to eat, for he has not eaten all day. He pretends that his mother and father are nothing but memories.

As he leaves the room, he diagnoses the creaking of the floorboards beneath him as the mansion simply being old, not the sounds of all the extra solitude he doesn’t know what to do with.


	2. I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is very important so please read!**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Obviously, I do not own Harry or Louis or Niall, Liam, and Zayn. I don't own Lux, Lou, and the Tomlinson's. I created, like, only a tiny handful of the characters in this fic. I do not own the plot to this story, although I know that I have created some of my own conflicts and situations.**.
> 
> I. This fic is based off of the Disney movie Beauty and The Beast. It's not precisely right regarding the time period; I modernized it just a tad bit for the convenience of everybody! Also, I just don't exactly know much about the time period where this occurred. The books that Louis reads may not be in the exact time, either, although I did try my best to research the time the books were written/published.
> 
> II. Louis is French. Harry is French. They're all French. This is based in a French society. I'll be emphasizing it in a few italicized terms that I, admittedly, will Google Translate, but they'll speak English because that's just about the only language I know and it's just easy. If anyone will ever want to translate this fic, all I ask is that you ask me.
> 
> III. I'm not "copying" this entire movie. The plot follows, yes, but I will not be following the story line scene for scene. Sure, there will be some things that you'll expect. But there also will be things that I am creating entirely on my own, aside from the help I get from Ben Howard, Bon Iver, and David Levithan.
> 
> IV. The title of this fic is from the word elysian, which:
> 
>  **"Elysian; adj. : of, relating to, or characteristic of heaven or paradise."**.
> 
> There you have it, folks.

                Louis has to stand on his toes in order to peer into the bakery, and when he does, the chilly wind bites his ankles, but he doesn’t let that bother him. He focuses instead on the scent of freshly baked bread, a sweet smell that the entire town seems to be drawn to. It’s no surprise, for bread is served at every meal when it can be afforded, a crucial part to the everyday diet. Louis tries to remember how many loaves his mother sent him out for, and then how much money he’d have left over so he could splurge on himself.

“ _Salut_ , Louis!” Alfred, the baker, calls, making an appearance at the front door of the bakery. He is shorter than Louis at a simple five-foot-four, but he is much wider in the middle, positively covered in flour from his mousy-brown mustache to his leather-covered feet. “The usual two loaves, yes?”

“Hello, Alfred,” Louis smiles, pressing a hand to his chest and smoothing out his thick shirt. The bread basket sits on his forearm, swinging lightly by his hip. His mother usually goes out to pick up the bread every week, but she is working: before Louis went out half an hour ago, a little boy was at the kitchen table with a broken wrist. “Um, yes, sir. Two loaves and one of the pastries, please.”

“For one of your sisters, I presume?” Alfred says, referring to the sweet treat, and he is grinning, although Louis can’t see past his fuzzy mustache. He disappears back inside the bakery, and then Louis can’t see him at all, so he turns to look over his shoulder, watching the other villagers making about their day.

Most of them are polite to Louis, although a small handful of them give him tight smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. They talk about him, and this is no secret: compared to the other males in the village, Louis is quite the oddball. His entire family is an oddball, in fact. His mother is not the general housewife; she is one of the town’s doctors. She is also the bearer of more children than anyone in the small town with a full five kids instead of the usual one or two. The four girls are at the top of their class, smart and opinionated, and, even though Louis finds this statement very biased, the men think that women should not be able to think their own thoughts.

And then there is Louis, who is claimed to be the weirdest of them all. Hunting and drinking and being a typical man is nothing he has ever been interested in. _Girls_ are nothing he has ever been interested in, and he thinks that this is one of the main problems regarding his relationship with the townspeople. He likes boys, has since he was a little one himself, and some people just don’t understand.

“Um, not this time, Alfred,” Louis murmurs, standing up on his toes. He tries to seek out the baker, but he cannot hear anything but his gruff voice as he mumbles to himself. “For myself, actually.” Louis admits with a nervous giggle, ducking his head, sheepish.

“Ah, I see. There’s nothing wrong with getting a little something for yourself every once in a while,” the baker assures. He falls silent and Louis laughs again, nodding to show his understanding. Alfred’s short, plump arms lift up into Louis’ view, holding Louis’ purchase wrapped in blue cloth. “Well, two loaves of bread and a pastry for you, Louis.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Louis gushes, reaching up to grab his food. He places it in his basket next to his book and is sure to wrap it up so it stays nice and warm. He reaches into his shirt sleeve and pulls out enough to pay for the bread, making sure the baker receives it. “Have a nice day,” he says brightly before turning around and leaving.

“Goodbye, Louis! Say hello to your mother for me!”

“ _Bien sûr_ , Alfie!” Louis exclaims, hitching his wicker basket full of bread higher onto his arm. He makes his way to his next stop, having to greet more people than he had yesterday. Everyone is happy today, is the thing; the weather is nice regardless of the chilling wind that makes it impossible to forget that it’s barely mid-winter. Little kids run about and trip up the elders, mumbling out tiny, half-hearted apologies before they’re back to their games, pale skin flushed pink and breaths clouding up in front of their mouths.

The shops in the village are family-owned and tiny, quaint and friendly. Louis is here every day, in this little shopping town, talking to those his family is close to, getting clothes re-sewn at the tailor, and buying what is needed for dinner; apples, corn, flour, venison, the likes. Groceries had been his errand for yesterday, however, and he’d gotten his younger sisters’ skirts fixed the day before that, so today was solely for bread and his own needs.

Louis searches for the old, rotting sign that reads _BOOKSELLER_ ; pushes open the swinging door when he gets to the small building. He’s always elated when he steps foot in the small bookstore, because the smell of books is something he thinks he likes more than the smell of rising dough, than the smell of his mother’s pie when she’s in a particularly good mood.

The bookstore is dusty and old, but it makes Louis feel younger, in his primary years as opposed to the very beginning of his twenties. He remembers most of the books he’s read and when he’s read them. _Jack and the Beanstalk_ sits somewhere within the store, page twenty-two torn in the corner from when his eldest younger sister got grabby with the book when he was nine.

“Bern?” Louis calls with a smile, his eyes already falling upon the dozens and dozens of books that line the shelves. He reaches into his basket, past his bread, past his treat, and grabs _Gulliver’s Travels_ , cradling the book in his arms. He browses the books whilst holding his own, lifting a hand to brush his fingers along the spines of them, feeling for a sudden attraction to any of them. “Bern, I’ve come to return my book for a new one.”

“You’re finished already?”

Louis hears Bern’s voice and the slow sound of his cane hitting the floor before he can see the man, and when he finally does come into view, he is wearing the same outfit he’s worn for at least a decade straight. Bern – formally known as Bernard, but jokingly known as Bern – is two times older than Louis but holds the same amount of interest in the world as a toddler. He’s one of Louis’ closest friends, despite his age, and he’s already promised Louis the bookstore when he retires, making Louis even fonder towards him.

Louis blushes and peeks around one of the shelves, finding Bern slowly making his way to Louis. He’s got a gap-toothed smile, and Louis can’t help but to return it as he excitedly says, “I couldn’t put it down; you know how I am with books. Have you received anything new?”

“Not since last week, little one,” Bern says with a chuckle and a sigh, his tone laced with slight sympathy. He takes the book from Louis and begins to slowly head to the place where it belongs, and Louis trails behind him, pouting for a moment.

“That’s okay,” he decides after a bit, plucking _Cinderella_ from one of the shelves. He skims through the pages before grinning. “I’ll just read _Cinderella_ again.”

“For the fourth time, yes?” Bern laughs louder this time, a rumble that comes from deep in his belly. He coughs and wheezes soon after, cursing and rubbing his throat. Louis hides his mouth with his book to sheathe his giggle, cheeks flushing at the vulgarity of his words.

“It’s probably one of my favorites,” Louis explains solemnly, eyes wide, “simply because of how romantic it is. I mean, the whole deal with the stepsisters and stepmother is just a shame, and she gets to go out for one night on her own, and she meets that prince.” Louis moves to stand in front of the window, gazing out at the street. When people gaze back in, Louis doubts they are surprised with his whereabouts. “And she doesn’t even know that she’ll have a chance of meeting him again until she loses her shoe. He’s so keen on finding her because he’s fallen in love with her. In such a short time, too.”

“If you like it so much, why don’t you just keep it?” Bern sound very sincere, and when Louis whips around to face him, he sees that the old man is positively beaming. Louis is positive he’s wearing the same expression. Bern continues, reaching up and slotting _Gulliver’s Travels_ into its proper place. “I’m sure nobody would miss it as much as you would.”

“I’ll read it again and again, and I won’t stop until you give me news about more books coming in!” Louis insists, tucking the book in beneath his bread. He takes a look at his pastry before taking it out, unfolding the wrapper that covers it up. He breaks it in half and offers some to the man, grinning, always grinning. “Here. Share it with me. I don’t want to eat all of this by myself.”

Bern takes a step closer and outstretches a hand, smiling all gap-toothed. His fingers are pale, long, and old. The skin sags at his wrists. “Why, little one? You’re too thin, if you ask me. You could use a little more meat on your bones. And, you know, you’re curving out just a bit like the ladies.”

Louis shrugs and repositions his wicker basket, his nerves buzzing with the excitement of going home and curling up in front of the fireplace with tea and his book. He holds his pastry in one palm and picks at it with the fingers of his opposite hand, placing the little flecks of dough onto his tongue. He doesn’t have anything to say regarding his figure, so he blinks that away, smiling small. “Oh, _je ne sais pas_ , Bern. I don’t want to spoil dinner tonight, because Mum gets really annoyed when we don’t finish our meals.”

“I understand that, I do,” Bern hums, nibbling at his half of the pastry. He nods seriously, his glassy eyes focusing on a spot in the floorboard. This isn’t uncommon. Louis likes to think that he’s caught up in his thoughts, frozen in the reality of all the books he’s read. When his eyes get glassy, Louis thinks that he’s seeing a different world, perhaps green grass in a field that belongs to some alternative universe rather than the creaky floor of a simple bookstore in an even simpler town. Louis wants to be able to lose himself in his imagination when he’s older and has all the time in the world. He wants to see men in shining armor and women in dresses of the finest fabrics.

Louis watches curiously for a moment, his head tilted to the side. He wants to join his old friend, but he realizes that he can’t: Bern has seen too much for Louis to be able to catch up to. He also doesn’t want to intrude on something so personal and hidden. So he sways a little from side to side, completely content at this point, eyeing the books that surround him once more. Big ones, tiny, pocket-sized ones; thick ones, and paper-thin ones. Louis’ sure he’s read them all. He’s gotten lost in the stories, has fallen in something that resembles love with all of them, has gone all fuzzy with adoration with the handsome knights. Eventually, Bern looks up, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Why on Earth are you moving around like that, Louis?” He asks, and Louis laughs, quickly facing the man. He shrugs his shoulders up high, and Bern says, “I’ve never known anyone quite like you, my boy.”

                                                                                                **//**

                Louis is halfway home and has his nose halfway in his book, weaving around curious children who try to peer into his bread basket, nosy and hungry. He stumbles every so often on a large rock or abandoned teddy, but for the most part he can keep himself upright, his eyes stuck like glue to the pages below his face.

He is only bothered when a hand settles on his hip from behind, tugs insistently, fingertips curving against the soft arc of his hipbone. Louis startles and turns around, glancing up. He isn’t surprised to see Zayn, dressed in expensive leather and warm cotton, hide boots looking smart on his quick feet. He’s got a gun strapped to his back, Louis notices, and his hunting buddy Al trails behind him, precisely four feet and nine inches tall.

Zayn is the local hunter, and everyone knows him; the father’s know how good of a role model he is to the little boys, and the mother’s know how well-mannered he is, the perfect man for young girls to pine after. The girls adore him and the boys aspire to be him. Zayn likes both girls and boys, is the thing, and always has, but Louis has unintentionally found himself being the one to fill Zayn’s spotlight.

“ _Bonjour_ , Zayn,” Louis says, lifting his head high, remembering his mother’s strict words as to how he’s supposed to behave. Even though he can’t always bring himself to want to talk to Zayn, he should at least act like it. He places his thumb in his book before closing it, all too aware of the hunter’s hand remaining on his hip. “I- um, how are you?”

“Hello, Louis.” Zayn’s accent is thick and rough, soft like a whisper. His tone has a reason to hold such superiority; he is thought of so highly within the village. His eyes flit down to Louis’ book before he smiles even wider, drawing Louis in close. “I’m well. How are you, beautiful boy?”

Louis stutters. His wicker basket hits Zayn’s thigh, and he manages to scramble a couple small steps back, glancing over Zayn’s shoulder and at Al. He carries a bag on his little shoulder, likely filled with dead animals; ducks, because it’s the right season for it. He speaks incoherently, bounding excitedly behind Zayn. He is Zayn’s biggest fan and one of Louis’ biggest annoyances.

“I’m very good, thanks,” Louis answers slowly, taking another step back. He tucks a chunk of hair back out of his eyes and cracks open his book, his every intention being for him to step past Zayn and be on his way. However, he isn’t able to do much more than pick up his foot before his book is snatched away by the large, steady hands that belong to Zayn. When Louis reaches out for _Cinderella_ , the hunter draws it further away and tilts it to the side, glancing at it as if it’s in a foreign language.

“Zayn, may I please have my book back?” Louis asks, incredulous, and he makes another quick dash for it, only to have it annoyingly pulled out of his reach once more. He smiles a little, trying to find his patience. Zayn is only teasing, and he tries to tell himself this. “Come on, now, I have to be home soon. I don’t have time for this silly–”

“How on Earth are you able to read these things?” Zayn asks, and Louis rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. With his back turned to Louis, Zayn saunters around with the book, flipping messily through the pages. Louis doubts that Zayn has ever picked up a book in his life. “It’s got no pictures.”

“Some people use their imaginations,” Louis chides, kicking at a pebble with his big toe. It’s a quiet comment, but laced with an intimidating amount of attitude that seems to anger the hunter.

Zayn closes the book harshly, turns to Louis, and smirks, having to bend down awkwardly in order to meet Louis’ gaze. “Louis, baby, it’s about time you got rid of your silly reading habit,” he remarks, and with a flick of his wrist, Louis’ book is sent flying a few extra feet in the air before falling onto the ground, ultimately covering the book in mud and dust. “It’s pretty foolish.”

“Zayn!” Louis’ voice is nothing short of a shriek as he crouches down, eyebrows furrowed frustratingly. This is the precise reason he cannot stand the presence of Zayn; he is far too boastful, far too wound up in his own mind to give a second thought about anyone else. Even though Louis notices a change in emotion when Zayn speaks to him, Louis is still displeased with it.  Zayn sidesteps in front of the mud puddle, in front of Louis’ book. Louis pushes himself to his feet and grumbles, and all the while, Zayn keeps talking, insulting.

“I mean, why not focus on other things? _More important_ things. Like me!” He finally steps away from Louis’ book, his hands locked behind his back. “The entire town is talking about you, you know. About you and your goofy books. It’s not right for men to read all the time, you know? Men, you know- men hunt. Men make women happy with being successful. Men aren’t the ones who pick up bread and spend their days at the bookstore with old men who are dying out.”

“Well, Zayn, you’re not exactly set on making _women_ happy,” Louis murmurs, picking up his book from the mud. He dries it off with the corner of his shirt as he stands upright, knowing that his mother will have a fit. He places the book in his basket so it’ll no longer be put in any danger. He chews on his lip, swallowing thickly. “I mean, you- you are rather interested in…in _me_. And I’m a boy. I mean- I’m a man. And a man can do absolutely whatever pleases them. Women, too. Anyone can do anything that makes them happy, and reading makes me happy.”

“ _Touché_ , _mon amour_.” Zayn sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he’s frustrated with Louis for not understanding what he’s getting at, but nothing can compare to how irritated Louis is with the older man. At the age of twenty-four, Zayn sure does act like a child. “Here, how about we take a walk, hm? I’ll take you home a little while after supper?”

Zayn’s hand begins to curl around Louis’ waist like he’s already gotten his answer, but Louis makes quick work of pulling himself away, shaking his head no.

“I’ve really got to get home to my sisters and mum,” he excuses, straightening out his clothes. From behind, a not necessarily forgotten Al speaks up, his voice breaking as his voice rises to several different pitches.

“That loon of a woman?” he croaks, settling beside Zayn. He shifts the bag of dead ducks on his shoulder and Louis catches Zayn snickering quietly. This seems to egg Al on to a flurry of other rude remarks. “All those children! I still don’t get it! She must be insane!”

“Cut it out, Al, you…you’re so disgraceful,” Louis grumbles, turning around to hide his flushing face. “Goodbye, Zayn,” he adds hastily, his jaw wound up tight as he dashes off. He’s in a hurry now, hoping that Zayn doesn’t try to follow him home. He hears the hunter chastising Al on his teasing remark about Louis’ mum, but Louis does in fact recall the man giggling along with him.

Louis makes it into the woods and sighs in relief when the only things he hears are the crunch of his own feet against the ground and a whinnying horse in the distance.

                                                                                                **//**

                Louis gets nothing short of a scolding when he reaches the small cottage that’s tucked away near the very back of the woods. He is told off for getting home late, although he’s no more than fifteen minutes behind. He is harassed over the fact that he got the dog barking out front because of his unfamiliar scent, more than likely from the smell of animals on Zayn’s clothes and then Zayn himself. He is nagged for his dirty cotton shirt, quick words leaving his mother’s mouth as she wags the tomato-covered wooden spoon she is using for dinner preparations in his face.

“Mum, I dropped my book in the mud and I needed to clean it so the dirt wouldn’t stain,” Louis reasons as soon as he’s far enough in the house for his cheeks to lose its chilly-red tinge, setting the wicker basket on the kitchen table. He decides not to mention Zayn and how he was held back because of him, choosing instead to peel off his shirt, tucking it under his arm and presenting his two loaves of bread to his mother with a little smile.

“Go into your room to undress, please, sir, and get ready for supper,” Louis’ mother reprimands, lips pursed tightly, clearly still annoyed. She musters up a miniscule smile after looking her son over. “And thank you for picking up the bread, my sweet boy.”

 Louis murmurs his apologies through a lip-bitten grin before grabbing his book and leaving to wash up. On his way to the bathroom, his eldest little sister emerges from the room she shares with the three younger girls, doing up the last button of her dress. She’s got her knapsack hanging off of one shoulder, papers and clothes strewn messily about it, shirt sleeves hanging over the edge.

Louis recalls that she’s been talking about going to a friend’s house for the past week. They’ve a project for school together – “a perfect time for me to spend the night,” as Charlotte had announced. Charlotte is leaving soon, Louis guesses, before the sun goes down. The walk through the woods and to her friend’s house is always a long and confusing one unless there is enough sunlight salvaged. Leave it to Charlotte to calculate the time.

“You’re not staying for dinner?” Louis asks with a coy smile, cradling his book in one arm. He briefly peers into the bedroom; he finds it as unkempt as Lottie’s bag. He is lucky enough to have his own little nook of a bedroom within the house, because four girls in one small space becomes hazardous more often than not. Felicite, the third eldest within the Tomlinson family, brushes her hair delicately several feet behind Charlotte, staring out the window. The twins can be heard arguing in the washroom over which special-scented soap should be bought next. “Mum is making that really good tomato soup with the bread I just picked up, and that’s your favorite, isn’t it?”

Charlotte purses her lips, glancing down at her shoes and shrugging. “There’s bound to be more when I come back tomorrow, Lou. Plus, Janie’s dad is in parliament so he gets the really good veggies from this village a little ways from us. That’s what she told me.”

“Is that so?” Louis whispers with a light chuckle, reaching out to sort Charlotte’s collar. “Have fun, yeah? And be careful in those woods, there’s supposed to be a bit of a storm tonight. You know how to get there, yes?”

“Of course, Louis!” Charlotte scoffs in her thirteen-year-old know-it-all way, rolling her eyes. “I’ve only been through there a zillion times. I’ll get to Janie’s before the storm. And I’ll take Rover with me, too; he’s a smart dog.”

Louis smiles and leans forward to smack a delicate kiss to Charlotte’s forehead, figuring that a zillion is plenty of times to get used to a route. “Alright, Lots, have a fun time. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, right?”

“Yes, Lou. See you then. Love you.” Charlotte grins before starting down the hall, calling a ‘bye-bye’ over her shoulder. Louis returns the departing remark before making his way to his room, positive that it’s the warmest room in the entire home.

Louis’ got too many books on his shelf, so at least three dozen more of them are stacked neatly against the wall. He’s read all of them; some of them he doesn’t understand, has had to ask Bern about. He keeps them anyway because they look nice, and on the opposite wall sits his bed. It’s simple with a multicolored quilt, covered with all the fluffy pillows he could steal from the family room without getting caught. He’s got a chest for his clean clothes and a little basket for the dirty ones, and he swaps his muddy shirt for a sweater, folding up the sleeves along his forearms before settling onto his bed and grabbing his book. There’s a lantern on his chest for when he reads after dark, and he reaches over to switch it on, knowing that he’d have to do it sooner or later.

He lies on his belly, propping his book up against the pillows before turning it open to the very first page. He completely forgets about his task until his name is being shouted in an irritated tone for him to get to the dinner table. Louis drops his head into his book, stifles a groan, and gets up, rushing past his twin sisters as he makes his way to the bathroom.

“Sorry, Mum!” He squeals, lathering his hands with the remaining pieces of soap left beside the sink.

“I’m going to take your books if you keep getting distracted by them!” Louis’ mother threatens. Louis laughs and smiles into the bathroom mirror. He’s heard that promise time and time again.

She never follows through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? :) x.


	3. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is very important so please read!**
> 
>  
> 
> **Obviously, I do not own Harry or Louis or Niall, Liam, and Zayn. I don't own Lux, Lou, and the Tomlinson's. I created, like, only a tiny handful of the characters in this fic. I do not own the plot to this story, although I know that I have created some of my own conflicts and situations.**
> 
> I. This fic is based off of the Disney movie Beauty and The Beast. It's not precisely right regarding the time period; I modernized it just a tad bit for the convenience of everybody! Also, I just don't exactly know much about the time period where this occurred. The books that Louis reads may not be in the exact time, either, although I did try my best to research the time the books were written/published.
> 
> II. Louis is French. Harry is French. They're all French. This is based in a French society. I'll be emphasizing it in a few italicized terms that I, admittedly, will Google Translate, but they'll speak English because that's just about the only language I know and it's just easy. If anyone will ever want to translate this fic, all I ask is that you ask me.
> 
> III. I'm not "copying" this entire movie. The plot follows, yes, but I will not be following the story line scene for scene. Sure, there will be some things that you'll expect. But there also will be things that I am creating entirely on my own, aside from the help I get from Ben Howard, Bon Iver, and David Levithan.
> 
> IV. The title of this fic is from the word elysian, which: " **Elysian; adj. :** of, relating to, or characteristic of heaven or paradise." There you have it, folks.

                “Mum, do you think I’m weird?” Louis asks in a mumble, intentionally speaking around the rim of his tea mug, for he is embarrassed to have even allowed the thought to consume his brain. He had waited until a reasonable time to talk to his mother about this; his sisters would have poked fun at him. The three girls are in bed, however, tucked under many blankets and surrounded by homemade, over-stuffed animals. It’s just Louis and his mother now, with Louis bundled up in a quilt with his book in his lap and tea in his hands. His mother sits off to the side, knitting by lantern-light.

“Why do you ask that, Louis?” Jay says with an edge of incredulity in her tone, and Louis wrinkles his face up, burrowing himself deeper within his cradle of warmth. “You’re no stranger than everyone else in this town,” she continues, and Louis sighs, glancing over his shoulder and at her.

“That’s the thing, though, that right there!” Louis straightens so he can stare down at his book, skimming his fingers along the words. He pouts before taking another sip of his tea. “I don’t fit in, Mum. I’m weirder than everyone else. I have no one to talk to because everyone thinks I’m strange.”

“That one man doesn’t think you’re strange,” Jay coos, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “What’s his name? Zayn, yes? The hunter. He quite fancies you.”

Louis cannot help but to groan quietly into his tea. Ahead of him, the fire crackles like it senses Louis’ displeasure, flames whipping around like all the thoughts that go unsaid in his mind about Zayn. “Oh, definitely not Zayn, Mum,” Louis says seriously, exasperated. His eyebrows furrow tightly and he shakes his head. “He’s so rude. He took my book today, you know, and threw it in the mud. That’s why I had to clean it off with my shirt. He thinks that my liking to read is the most disgusting thing he’s ever heard. He’s- he’s conceded, and he’s a brat, and he says that I shouldn’t read and be some sort of…I don’t even know what he wants from me. It doesn’t make me happy to be around him.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, pet,” Jay murmurs, and Louis can hear her pushing herself out of her chair and setting her knitting tools aside. A moment later, she is on her knees beside Louis, hugging him in her arms. Louis leans into her full heartedly. “You know how men get, yeah? They go all loopy in the brains when they fancy someone,” Jay sounds so sure. “Your father was the same way with me for ages before we married.”

Louis smiles, looking up at his mother. His heart goes warm with the thought of his father, knowing that he was like no other man, no other _human_ , kind and sweet and ready to go against the norms. His dad, having passed away six years ago in an accident during one of his jobs, wasn’t forgotten in the least bit, but the heart-exhausting mourning had been put to an end after the first couple years. The town had stopped sending the family blankets and clothes and pies long, long ago. It was all over in the sense of everyone being sad, but his father lingered everywhere within the house, in Louis’ hand-me-down clothing and the dollhouse that had been built and placed in the girls’ bedroom.

“I miss him,” Louis says softly with an even softer smile, closing his eyes. “I hope I find someone just like him. I’d fall in love with him in an instant, and he’d be in love with me, and he’d like the books I read, because he’d have read them, too. Maybe he doesn’t even have to have read them. I want him to like me talking about them, though.”

“He was one of a kind, your papa, but I’m sure you’ll find someone not very far at all behind. He’ll suit all your fairytale needs; buy you the fanciest clothes, give you the shiniest of jewelry.” Jay is teasing now, only slightly, and Louis blushes, sitting up and kissing her cheek.

“Kiss me all the time, dance with me until we forget that everything else exists,” Louis drones on against her skin. “He’ll be the fairest of all the lands,” he concludes, whispering like it’s a promise, pushing his mug of tea into her hands. “Will you finish this for me? I’m going to go to bed, I think.”

“Goodnight, Lou, sweet dreams,” Jay says. “And don’t stress about Zayn, hm? Perhaps he’ll shape up. If he really cares about you, then he’ll start to act like a proper gentleman for you.”

Louis covers his mouth with his palm in order to prevent himself from scoffing. He doesn’t think he’d be interested in Zayn if the hunter gave him flowers and chocolates every day, but he isn’t a disbeliever of second chances. He gets up with a sigh, grabs his book, and folds his blanket before draping it along the back of a chair. “You’re right, Mum,” he yawns, nodding his head and starting down the hall, “goodnight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

                                                                                                **//**

                Today, eleven o’clock p.m. is the worst hour of Harry’s life. He knows that tomorrow it’ll be a different time, perhaps three in the morning, or maybe noon, but as far as he is concerned, nothing can get worse than this. Things are always bad when he is changed, when even the _workers_ flinch back when he enters a room, turn away and pep-talk away their discomfort before giving Harry a pitiful smile.

He lingers around the castle instead of talking to anyone, picking at his malnourished nails, which are chipped and uneven due to all of the biting he does to them when he is like this. On any other hour, _just an hour ago_ , his hands were just fine, pale and smooth. However, they were still larger than they had been before.

 _It_ never really went away. _It_ was what he sometimes woke up with, what he sometimes went to bed with, what has cursed him for so long already.

Harry can hear some of the staff chattering mindlessly in another room, and he disregards them with a huff and a glance up at one of the many clocks that are placed within the mansion. It has only been ten minutes since his change, he realizes with a groan, and he runs the heel of one of his hands across his eyes, turning around to start in a different direction.

He takes two long strides before he hears the creak of a door opening and the whistle of a wind that’ll likely carry through the entire house. A growl settles in Harry’s throat, because he’s informed every single one of the workers that the door was to remained closed at all times – forever.

“Um,” someone whispers, their tiny voice echoing throughout the foyer. Harry pauses where he is and bares his teeth before moving as far out of sight as he can without being unable to hear, darting towards the stairwell and pressing himself against the wall. The same little voice goes, “hello?”

Harry says nothing, instead making himself scarce against the steps. He knows someone will tend to the person’s needs, because it has anonymously been established that Harry cannot do a thing for another person without either terrifying them or sentencing them to death.

The little voice asks around once more, a series of sniffles and timid little remarks, and then Harry hears Liam, sees his shadow tall and dark and round in the foyer. Niall follows suit, hopping along, his candles illuminating the dim rooms.

“It’s a _girl_ ,” Niall whispers, his tone laced with excitement. The hopping stops. They’ve reached the visitor. “Oh, you poor thing, you’re all wet. Hi, little girl. Welcome.”

“Oh, my,” the girl exclaims before she clears her throat, “You- _how_? I, um- anyway…I’m Charlotte. I was on my way to my friend’s house, but the storm hit before I could get there, and now I’m lost. My dog is waiting outside, and he can stay out there, but I was wondering if I could stay until tomorrow morning? It’s really cold out there. I hope it won’t be too much of a bother.”

Harry’s blood boils hot, because this is just like what had happened all those years ago. Perhaps this is another trick, another lady testing Harry only so she can turn him into an even uglier beast. Harry claws at the wall and closes his eyes. He pushes himself to wait a little longer before blowing a fuse.

“Oh, _He_ isn’t going to like this,” Liam mutters, and his hands click like they always do when he’s nervous. For once, Harry is glad that Liam knows what he’s talking about. “He is _not_ going to like this.”

“Who is ‘He’?” Charlotte asks curiously. “Is it a human? Can I talk to him?”

“We’re most definitely human, too, I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Niall screeches, and the light in the foyer grows larger before dimming down lower than it had started out. He sighs, defeated. “Ah, whatever. Come, Charlotte, we’ll get blankets for you.”

“I’m sorry, um...s-sir, it’s just- you’re a candle,” Charlotte whispers. “You’re really fascinating, though, and so are you, Mr. Clock. Thank you so much for letting me stay.”

“It’s Liam, my dear!” Liam corrects, and the sounds of their individual footsteps are heard as they enter the living room; Niall’s hopping, the waddling of Liam’s short legs, and then the smoother, wet-sounding steps of the little girl. “And the candlestick is Niall. Now tell me…”

Liam’s voice fades as the three of them disappear, shadows and all. Harry pushes himself from against the wall, eyebrows narrowed in close. He paces for a bit, biting at his fingernails. He knows he shouldn’t feel uneasy about approaching an adolescent girl, but he hasn’t had a single visitor in at least a year, and this is a _girl_.

Occasionally, people like Charlotte will show up for the same reasons – lost and needing a place to stay. They’re always men, though; men who are misled by their dogs while hunting or much older males taking a stroll and getting caught up in their own minds. Sometimes curious children come within the gates with every intention to play in the garden of dead and dying flowers. Harry isn’t completely uncivilized, so he only manages to lock up the older people, opting for scaring away the children to the point of no return.

Harry wonders what will happen if he denies this girl a place to stay, not wanting a reoccurrence of the first accident, but he’s also _angry_ over the fact that another enchantress would mess with him again. What more could anyone want with him? With a growl, Harry pulls his hand away from his face and pushes his hair out of his eyes, rounding the corner and starting hastily towards the trio.

“Liam!” he barks, and Liam squeaks immediately, ticking awfully erratically and peering over the arm of the single chair that sits in the living room. It’s plush and casts eerie shadows against the corners of the room – it’d belonged to Harry’s father, the chair he’d always lounged in to read the letters and notices he would receive from the village. Niall’s little mouth forms an _O_ , the flames where his hands used to be immediately dimming down, “Liam, what the fuck?” he growls out, peering around the edge of the armchair, seeking out the girl.

“Eh, _b-bonjour_ ,” Charlotte stutters in a shrill tone before Liam can speak, and her face blanches when she faces Harry. Harry soaks up the fear. She’s pretty, Harry vaguely notices, for a little girl. Her hair is a pretty shade of brown, falling straight towards her shoulders. Her eyes, a bright blue, are wide with terror. When she speaks, she’s surprisingly professional. “I- I’m Charlotte Tomlinson, and I- I’m lost with a d-dog outside and I–”

“With all due respect, master, she’s only a little girl,” Niall interjects effortlessly, lifting what _would be_ his arms into what _would be_ a shrug - if he weren’t a piece of animated furniture, that is. Regardless of his smooth tone, his eyes look nervous. Liam isn’t very far off, pacing noisily. “Um, she can’t be but a mere adolescent–,” Niall continues, pleading, reasoning, “– let her stay the night, yes? We can put her in one of the guest rooms and we’ll have her out by dawn.”

For a moment, Harry considers it. Niall has always been easy around him, even as a goddamned candle. Throughout the five years, their friendship dwindled down into something that now consists of Niall’s intelligent recommendations and Harry’s insistent disobedience. The thought of being suggested as to what to do by a _lantern_ pulls him to the edge of exasperation again, causing his hands to itch with distaste.

“Come with me,” he murmurs, his voice dropping dangerously low. He reaches around and takes Charlotte by the arm, completely disregarding her squeak of surprise as he hauls her up. “You want to stay here?” he growls, not looking for an answer. He drags Charlotte along behind him, tolerating her babbling for all of two seconds before speaking over her. “You can stay in the dungeon.”

“No!” Charlotte sniffles and pulls, recoiling. Her feet skid along the floor ahead of her, the idea of holding her ground failing. Harry is simply too big, too strong. “Mister, please! I’ll leave! I’ll find my own way home, sir! I won’t bother you again, I promise. _S'il vous plaît , ne faites pas_!”

“Harry!” Niall hisses, teetering quickly beside Harry. The flames from his candles grow hot and Harry can feel it around his ankles. “What’s with you? She’s a little _girl_ , let her be! I’ll see to it that carriage takes her home!”

“Enough, Niall,” Harry whispers, and with that, Niall stops completely. Harry takes a now crying Charlotte down towards the very end of the east wing within the mansion, tugging her quickly through the hallways. He opens a few doors, closes some more, grumbles a bit under his breath, and then he’s pushing the heavy door open that leads to the cells, tensing up at the cold, since the dungeon is outdoors. Wet stone drips and mice scatter around; mold causes Harry’s nose to wrinkle up.

“Please.” Charlotte’s voice shakes like the rest of her, and he continues to try to wrench her arm free. Harry’s fingers overlap one another around her slim wrist. “I want to go home. My mummy and my sisters and my brother are expecting me home tomorrow.”

“Shame, hm?” Harry mumbles, and the sound of Charlotte’s sob causes him to stutter for a fraction of a second as he pulls open the door to the nearest cell. He nudges her in, and she shows no restraint, stumbling into the small, dark space. She sulks towards the back wall and leans against it, placing her head into her shaking, petite hands.

“How long d-do…do I–” Charlotte clears her throat and tries again. “How long do I have to stay here?”

Harry tilts his head to the side and crosses his arms, gazing out one of the small, man-made, misshapen windows towards the back of the chamber. He hears a dog barking, undoubtedly belonging to the girl, and he scowls, peering into the small holding once more. He hadn’t had any time to think of how long he’d keep Charlotte within the mansion, but his answer comes quick. “Indefinitely,” he smirks, feeding off of Charlotte’s wail with a slow side-glance at her.

He begins to leave once the cold becomes too much, cursing quietly under his breath as a little mouse scurries by his feet. He isn’t even at the door to the cells before he can hear the little girl whisper, “you’re really scary” along the silent company that the shadows provide.

God, Harry _knows._

He winces still, because the insult doesn’t fail to hit hard, and blows out a sigh, watching his breath condensate the air. He leaves in a fit, slamming the door behind him, and he steps around the teacups and clocks and dustpans that had been waiting anxiously nearby, running, _sprinting_ , down the west wing and towards the privacy of his own room.

                                                                                                **//**

                “Mummy!” Louis shrieks, peering nervously beyond the thin, dark red curtain that frames the large windows at the very front of the house. He makes sure that nothing other than his face is seen, if that, because the very last thing he wants is the impression that he is watching Zayn, that he actually cares what the lad is up to.

“What is it, darling?” Louis’ mother says smoothly from the kitchen, cutting thin slices of yesterday’s bread to make little sandwiches for lunch. All has been calm all morning; three of the four girls are at school, not to be back until before supper. Charlotte had been expected home a few minutes ago, right at noon, but Louis had insisted that she was likely bidding her goodbyes and thanks to the family of the friend she had been with.

“Look at what Zayn’s doing!” Louis speaks much quieter now, biting his lip as he allows himself to peek just a little further out the window. In one of the small clearings within the woods, several yards in front of his home, a tiny arc is set up, dozens of flowers and a handful of balloons dressing it prettily. The petals of a dozen more flowers follow the dirt trail up to Louis’ home. There are chairs set up that face an altar, in which a few people sit, chatting excitedly. To the sides of the arc, a local band sets up their instruments, with Zayn and Al standing amongst them, instructing them.

Zayn is dressed finely, kept warm in dark colors and a royal scarf that is tied around his neck and tucked into the vest of the semi-casual suit he’s wearing. He gestures with a gallant arm every so often towards Louis’ home, and then smiles at it, leaving Louis all the more curious. The hunch he’s got as to what exactly Zayn is doing has his stomach churning nervously and his head pounding lightly.

Jay sighs softly and makes her way to the window, glancing out of it from the opposite side. She furrows her eyebrows for a moment before she gasps, her grey eyes widening in surprise. She faces her son, covering her mouth loosely with her hand. “Louis,” she breathes, the lightest of giggles leaving her mouth. “This boy… Dear, I think Zayn plans on marrying you! As in _right now_! Today!”

“I know                !” Louis laughs sheepishly and turns away from the window, rubbing his hands against his hips. Although he shows no liking towards Zayn at all other than the minimum friendliness he is supposed to show, he is still nervous over the fact that there will be people watching himself and the hunter. He is afraid to make a fool out of Zayn because of what they townspeople will say, but, more importantly, he is afraid of making a fool out of himself.

“What’re you going to do?” Louis’ mother asks. Her tone reads shock, as do Louis’ feelings. “Are you going to say yes? I- well, how dare he; just because the father isn’t around does not mean he shouldn’t come to _me_ for a blessing!”

Louis’ lips curl inward in his own attempts to keep from laughing again, and he anxiously crosses his arms over his chest, glancing at the front door. Despite how humorous he finds this situation, it unnerves him to think about denying a marriage proposal. “Of- of course I’m not going to say yes!” he stammers. “I don’t _like_ him, Mum, much less do I want to spend the rest of my life with him!” Breathing out in frustration, Louis chews at his fingernails, closing his eyes. “Gosh, he’s going to hate me when I tell him no, isn’t he?”

Jay shuffles over to Louis and braces him in her arms, looking up only two inches in order to meet Louis’ gaze. “He won’t hate you, Louis, because he’s been doing things like this for ages,” she says with a soft smile, tilting her head knowingly to the side. “Breathe, my boy. This is another one of his silly games, yeah? You’re going to handle this like you handle every other shenanigan he comes up with!”

“Okay.” Louis smiles weakly, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to his mother’s. She chuckles and holds Louis tighter, kisses him quickly on the cheek. “Why does this have to happen to me?” he whines weakly, making a face.

“Well, your last name isn’t Tomlinson for any old reason,” Jay murmurs before stepping back, smoothing out her apron. She glances out the window and bites at her lip, her cheeks coloring. “Oh, Heavens, he’s on his way to the door,” she whispers before facing Louis once more. “I’m going to go clean up the girls’ room while you handle this out here, okay? Be short and sweet, darling.”

Louis nods his head and inhales another deep breath, letting it out as he watches his mother scurry down the hallway. Louis fixes his hair and straightens out his shirt before moving to stand in front of the door, toying with his fingers as he waits.

He counts to thirty-two before he hears a series of gentle knocks on the door, followed by the slow, deep call of his name. Louis mumbles a few self-encouraging words to himself before opening the front door, plastering a kind smile onto his face.

Zayn stands with his hands behind his back, his chest broad and his grin smug. Louis peers around his shoulder to see people facing them, giddy with excitement, bundled up in shawls and long overcoats. Louis hates to be the one to let them all down, to have them suffer through the cold because of the wedding he isn’t going to agree to.

“Hi, Zayn,” Louis hums, stepping aside so Zayn can make it into the house. He watches the hunter shake snow off his boots outside of the threshold, which Louis appreciates with a half-smile. “What a, um- what a surprise!” he says, blinking quickly as he closes the door. Having all of the expectant gazes off of him helps just a little.

“Isn’t it?” Zayn chuckles, and Louis’ smile immediately turns into a scowl that is shot directly at his back. He is sure to clear his facial expression when Zayn turns to face him, looking up at the older man with soft eyes. The fire behind them remains unseen. “That’s me – full of surprises. Stealthy. That’s precisely why I’m the best hunter in town.”

“Yes, Zayn,” Louis says with false fondness in his voice, nodding his head. He bites at the inside of his cheek until he can taste the metallic of blood. “You’re quite an admiration to positively everyone.”

“Right.” Zayn grins wider, stepping towards Louis. Louis tries not to take a step back, for Zayn’s cologne is strong, causing his nose to sting. “You know, Louis, I know a lot of girls – _and_ boys – who would kill to have as much as the attention that I give you.” Zayn sounds so sure. “This is the day your dreams come true, as far as I’m concerned.”

Louis hopes his mother can hear Zayn from the girls’ room, finding this awfully ridiculous. “How do you have any idea what I dream about?” he asks slowly, swiftly turning around. He hurries to the kitchen, cleaning up what was left from lunch preparations. Zayn follows, of course, and places his large hands down onto the small table in the center of the kitchen, reaching out and picking up a mini tomato and turkey sandwich.

“It’s no mystery, sweets,” Zayn says smoothly, stuffing the sandwich into his mouth. When he speaks again, his words are garbled, having decided not to chew up his food, much less speak after swallowing. “Imagine it. A log cabin somewhere secluded. One of your pies will sit at the window while my latest kill roasts on the fire. My little housewife can massage my feet while the little ones play with the dogs by the fire. I’m thinking eight or nine. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

Louis ignores Zayn’s question, knowing that he would not be content with his answer of no, that a life with Zayn seems far less appealing that anything he’s ever heard of. He doesn’t mention the fact that he doesn’t bake pies, and he certainly can’t trust himself to remind Zayn that he will not be anyone’s _wife_. If he decided to correct the hunter on his sexism, a flurry of curse words would follow, and he is not one to curse. Louis wrinkles his nose, wrapping up the leftover slices of bread with leisure. “I- eight or nine _dogs_? I don’t quite fancy that many animals.”

“No, Louis!” Zayn laughs. He reaches out to touch Louis’ hair, and Louis pinches his eyes shut, feeling a calloused thumb brush along his temple. “Children, of course! Handsome boys who’ll hunt like their papa and be as beautiful as the both of us.”

Louis mouth hangs open for a moment, completely speechless over how ignorant Zayn is. He hadn’t ever thought that one could be this thick. He is quick to grow flustered at the thought of making love to Zayn in order to have so many children. “I can’t- Zayn. I can’t have children,” he mutters, eyes wide. “It’s completely absurd for a man to have babies. A-absolutely impossible! Only women have babies!”

“I wouldn’t worry about that right now,” Zayn says quickly, and when Louis turns away to hide his reddening face, Zayn only follows. When he weaves his way into the family room, tugging nervously at his fingers, Zayn is two steps behind, insistent and annoying. “But are you getting what I’m saying, Louis?”

“Let me guess,” Louis says feebly, and no sooner than he adds, “you want me to be your husband,” does Zayn confirm just that, only much more excitedly.

“Exactly!” Zayn places his hands on Louis’ hips and turns him, crowding him back against the fireplace. “So? What’ll it be?” Louis makes quick work of prying the hunter’s hands off of him, slipping past him and scampering towards the front door. He gathers his wits and, with a clear of his throat, he attempts to sound as in love as possible.

“I’m completely flattered, Zayn,” he says airily, and with a bat of his eyelashes, he allows Zayn to back him against the thick, wooden door, large hands pressed beside his head. With a bite of his lip, Louis quickly finds the doorknob, wrapping his fingers around it as he tries not to let his mischievous flare reach his eyes. “I don’t know what to say!” he adds, tilting his head up.

“Why don’t you just say yes?” Zayn pouts playfully for a moment, his brown eyes dark and hard to read. He leans closer, a hand moving to tilt Louis’ head into the perfect position for a kiss. Louis begins to panic, running his mouth in incoherent quietness for a moment. As much as he’s longed to be kissed, he does not want Zayn to be the one to give him his first.

“I- I’m sorry, Zayn,” he whispers, gripping the doorknob. His eyes cross as he stares at Zayn’s lips, thin and pale-pink. “I just…I just don’t think I deserve to have you as my husband!” With that, he twists the knob and pushes open the door, ducking under Zayn’s arms and out of the way. He covers his moth with both of his hands as Zayn stumbles forward a few large paces and falls face-first into the dirty, melting snow.

At the altar, a few people begin to clap before they realize that their idol is in the mud. The band plays a traditional wedding song, sloppy but enthusiastic. Louis leans out the door and waves with a broad smile before quickly closing the door, locking it and leaning back against it.

He closes his eyes, knowing he is in deep, and a few minutes later, Jay emerges from the back, looking bewildered as she holds two pink blankets that are undeniably the girls’. Louis musters a pathetic grin and nods slowly, opening his eyes and surging towards his mother. He hugs her and hides his face into his neck, groaning loudly.

“I think you got the message clear, my dear,” she giggles, rubbing his back.

                                                                                                **//**

                In the early evening, as the sun begins to descend past the hills, Louis glances at the mini grandfather clock that sits beside the stove, eyebrows furrowed tightly together. The only one who isn’t home is Charlotte, who was supposed to be back hours ago. The twins are bathing, clueless at their young age. Felicite and Jay stand beside Louis, Felicite watching curiously as their mother slowly paces around the kitchen.

“Perhaps she decided to stay another night,” the little girl mumbles, playing with the arms of her doll on the kitchen table. It’s innocent enough, and Louis makes a playful face at her, which she reciprocates with all she’s got.

“Charlotte knows better than to not check with me primarily,” Jay reasons, and she stops her pacing, turning towards Louis. She messes with her blouse, sorting out the collar time after time. She’s stressed. “Louis, do you think you could–”

“I’ll go into town and see where she could be,” Louis confirms, rising up from his chair. He doesn’t expect Charlotte to be anywhere other than the jewelry store, or perhaps the bakery, bribing for sweets she’ll eat before she risks getting caught with them. He is three steps out of the kitchen before there’s a hasty knock on the door, and Louis’ gut twists at the thought that it just may be Zayn. He hadn’t come back after the accident earlier, however, hadn’t done a thing besides grumble as he shouted to everyone that the wedding was cancelled, or rather _postponed_.

Louis answers the door despite his hesitance and finds a little blonde girl with bouncy ringlets, a solemn look on her face. Before Louis can say hello, the girl speaks, a frown on her youthful, bright face. “I’m Janie,” she pouts, “and I was looking for Charlotte. She never came yesterday and I had to do the project all by myself.”

“She left for your house yesterday afternoon. You never saw her?” Louis asks, his stomach up in his throat. He glances outside at the progressively darkening sky, and then towards the ground as Rover’s mindless yipping cuts through the woods, making an abrupt stop to sniff Janie suspiciously. Charlotte is not with him.

Louis freezes.

“Mum, I’m going to find Lottie,” he yells hastily, his voice trembling, and he looks to Janie with wide eyes. “Thank you for telling me,” he says to her before she can answer his previous question. “Get home safely, alright? Maybe you should cut through the town. Even though it’s a longer way to walk, I wouldn’t want you getting lost.”

Janie pouts again before turning on her heel and lifting her dress, stepping tentatively around a particularly wet pile of snow. “Alright. Thank you, sir. I hope you find Charlotte.”

Louis doesn’t answer, closing the door. He immediately begins to bundle up in scarves and jackets that may not all fit him, all the while looking to his mother and little sister. “Charlotte’s missing,” he says softly, fitting a glove over his shaking fingers. “Janie was just at the door; she said that she hasn’t seen Charlotte at all. Rover is outside. She’s probably lost in the woods somewhere, so I’ll take the dog to go find her.”

“Oh, Lou, please be careful,” Jay all but wails. She holds her hands to her face, her eyes already damp. “Do you think I should find someone from town? Oh, my. Please. Just be careful. Try and get home as soon as possible. I’m going to send one of the men if you aren’t home tonight.”

“It’s alright, Mummy, Lottie’s a smart girl,” Louis reassures his mother with a tight smile. He opens the door and wants to groan at the chilliness that follows, but he whistles for Rover, who has his nose in the dirt. “She knows not to wander off even further. We’ll be back in no time.”

Jay nods and purses her lips, and Louis promises his sister’s return as well as his own as he leaves, bending down to give Rover a pat to the head before leading him through the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came much earlier than I expected! I had lots of time to write over the weekend! I'm not sure if it'll always be like this, but I'll definitely try my best. Comment and let me know your thoughts? Much love xx. :)


	4. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is very important so please read!**
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> **Obviously, I do not own Harry or Louis or Niall, Liam, and Zayn. I don't own Lux, Lou, and the Tomlinson's. I created, like, only a tiny handful of the characters in this fic. I do not own the plot to this story, although I know that I have created some of my own conflicts and situations.**
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> I. This fic is based off of the Disney movie Beauty and The Beast. It's not precisely right regarding the time period; I modernized it just a tad bit for the convenience of everybody! Also, I just don't exactly know much about the time period where this occurred. The books that Louis reads may not be in the exact time, either, although I did try my best to research the time the books were written/published.
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> II. Louis is French. Harry is French. They're all French. This is based in a French society. I'll be emphasizing it in a few italicized terms that I, admittedly, will Google Translate, but they'll speak English because that's just about the only language I know and it's just easy. If anyone will ever want to translate this fic, all I ask is that you ask me.
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> III. I'm not "copying" this entire movie. The plot follows, yes, but I will not be following the story line scene for scene. Sure, there will be some things that you'll expect. But there also will be things that I am creating entirely on my own, aside from the help I get from Ben Howard, Bon Iver, and David Levithan.
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> IV. The title of this fic is from the word elysian, which: " **Elysian; adj. :** of, relating to, or characteristic of heaven or paradise." There you have it, folks.

                It doesn’t take Louis very long to get to the huge, mysterious mansion that sits lonely and spooky on the other side of the woods. Rover has no problem taking the same route he did yesterday, stopping to relieve himself on tree stumps he had to have already passed. Louis knows he’s found the place when Rover barks loudly at the rusty front gates of the mansion, growling at it and keeping his body low to the ground.

 “It’s okay, Rover,” Louis hums, nudging his dog gently in the side with his foot to ease his pets’ nerves. Rover’s suspicions have his skin crawling, but he calms himself down with a few deep breaths. He glances up at the sky; it’s been dark for ages now, and Louis isn’t getting any warmer being out in the cold. “Sit, okay? Sit and stay. I’m going to go fetch Charlotte.”

Louis watches Rover take cautious refuge underneath a tree, his jaw atop his paws. Louis murmurs out a ‘good boy’ before slipping past the corroded gates, wrapping his arms around himself.

Louis has not seen or heard of this place before, but has no doubt that Charlotte managed to take cover in it, shutting herself out from the cold. Louis smiles at the intelligence of his baby sister, reaching the front doors of the castle and squinting at the door.

He knocks once and calls hello, bouncing on his heels. Waiting for an answer, he looks around, finding abandoned gardens sheathed and forgotten in inches of snow. Petite plants that Louis knows are rosebushes are decorated in shriveled up leaves and buds. Louis sighs, makes a face, and faces the door after receiving no answer, knocking again, harder.

“Charlotte?” he says loudly, grabbing the ice-cold doorknob and twisting. It’s unlocked, and Louis furrows his eyebrows as he pushes it open, his heart racing. “Lottie?” he repeats as he steps inside, closing the heavy door gently behind him. He works his gloves from his freezing fingers and pulls off a couple of the scarves that circle his neck, twisting them nervously in his hands.

The mansion is warm, Louis anxiously notices, and while the heat feels good, he knows that this means that someone other than Charlotte must be in here, living, isolating. The main foyer manages to make Louis feel smaller than ever, and, after taking note of the large pillars and the pretty paintings, he follows the red rug that leads to the staircase, calling out his sister’s name repetitively.

There are many clocks on the walls, antique and interesting, and they all read the same time – eight-oh-five. It’s only been a couple of hours since Louis left to find his sister, and he thinks that his progress has been good; if he can manage to find Charlotte, he can get home before the girls are even in bed, and this will be forgotten by tomorrow morning.

However, after fifteen minutes of turning corners and squinting into the darkness, Louis is sure he is becoming lost. He is just about to let an exhausted sigh leave his mouth when he hears the patter of tiny feet behind him, but when he turns around, all he sees is a door he’s just passed, only now it’s open and light is shining through it. Louis is quick follow the source, slipping beyond the door and finding a new set of stairs.

“Hello?” he says, once more, timidly, biting his lip. He follows the moving light up the spiral staircase, trying not to become dizzy with his haste. “Charlotte, is that you? It’s me, Louis!”

Louis makes it to the floor he was climbing for, frowning deeply. He is frustrated by now, his feet aching, and he crosses his arms over his chest, looking around. It is too dark to see anything, and the light is gone. “I know I heard something, I know I did,” he insists quietly to himself. Charlotte knows not to play games at a time like this. “Charlotte, this–”

“Louis?”

Louis startles, slowing down and falling silent to listen and make sure he hadn’t just imagined anything. His name is called again by the sweet and quivering voice of his sister, and Louis rushes towards the sound, eventually crouching down in front of a cell and touching the hand that reaches out for him. Relief floods warm throughout his body, and he presses himself closer to his sister, disregarding the wet, soggy wood he touches.

“Oh, Charlotte, what’ve you got yourself into?” he murmurs, lacing his fingers through the ice-cold ones of his sister. Charlotte sobs, gripping his hand. “It’s alright, Lots, I’m going to get you out of here.” Louis shimmies even closer, peering through the thick bars of the cell to see his sister’s face. He wriggles his hand between the bars and touches her, combing his fingers through her stringy hair and thumbing tears from her cheeks. “We were worried sick, did you know that? Mummy was about to lose it. Who put you in here?”

Like she is trying to say several different things all at once, Charlotte drivels, pressing herself up against her side of the cell and leaning into Louis’ hand. “I got lost so I came here- oh, Lou, I want to go home so badly- this man locked me in here, s-said I have to stay here forever. He’s a monster, Lou, he’s so scary. I just want to go home.”

“I’m going to get you out right now, okay?” Louis whispers in assurance, squeezing Charlotte’s hand before letting go. He rises to his feet and feels for a lock or something to pull open, but before he can grab at anything, a hand is placed on his shoulder, roughly pulling him back, which he responds to with a yelp of surprise.

“Louis!” Charlotte shouts, and Louis scrambles to keep himself upright, worming away from the large hand and pressing himself against the wall. He shakes with fear and cold, wishing he had the courage to move, to protect his sister, but he feels like jelly. The person, _monster_ , who’d had his shoulder prowls no more than three feet ahead of him, back in the darkness, out of Louis’ vision.

“Who the hell are you?” The person in the shadows asks, and Louis can’t make out anything other than the fact that this shadow is huge, that it is tall and has a voice that rattles Louis’ bones. It moves around, but it stays in the dark, lurking. “What are you _doing here_?”

“I’m taking my sister home!” Louis yells, struggling to keep his eyes on the figure. As strong and courageous he wishes to sound, there is nothing he can do about the way his voice shakes and breaks. “You- you took her, and I’m taking her home n-now. Can’t you let her go? She’s going to get sick! She’s only thirteen!”

“Then she shouldn’t have trespassed!” the figure argues, and Louis turns away, pouting. “A stupid, dumb girl,” it continues, spitting harshly. “That’s all she is. She’s lucky I even let her live; it’s the least I can do to let her stay in a fucking cell.”

“Please let her go,” Louis pleads, taking a tentative step forward. A growl echoes throughout the dungeon, and Louis quickly nods his head, taking the hint – stay back. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, mister. Please, can you let her go? I’ll do anything.”

“You can’t do anything,” the figure promises, and he turns away, making for a quick exit. Louis scrambles forward, holding his hands out to avoid bumping into anything. “She is my prisoner. She stays here.”

“There’s got to be something, sir,” Louis pleads. He trips on an uneven chunk of the floor and falls on his knees, biting his tongue to keep from crying out in frustration. Sitting up, Louis brushes off his hands and sniffs, pushing his hair back out of his eyes and working hard to compose himself. Charlotte continues to cry behind him. Louis closes his eyes, and the words leave his mouth before he can completely think them over. “I’ll take her place! If you let her go, I’ll stay instead!”

The monster laughs, although it quickly dies down when Louis holds his ground, completely serious. When he speaks, unlike all the other times, his words are soft like he can’t believe Louis would do such a thing, “You…you would do that for a little girl?”

“She is my _sister_ ,” Louis says through gritted teeth, “and if you let her go, yes, I will.” He stands up and backs away until he’s standing in front of Charlotte’s confinement, reaching for her hand again. “I want her to go home with our mum. She’s only a kid. She goes to school and has lots of friends and she doesn’t deserve to be in here. She’s got a whole life to live.”

“Promise me,” the person barks. “Promise me you’ll take her place _forever_ , and that you won’t leave.” The voice is challenging Louis, and Louis tries not to succumb to the pressure. He’ll do anything for his sister.  “Do it, and I’ll let her go.”

Louis still hesitates. He doesn’t realize he is crying until he licks his lips and tastes the salt of his tears, and with a frustrated sob, he wipes his eyes, swallowing thickly. The ultimatum is easy to decide against, but the words struggle to leave his mouth. “Come…into the light,” he whispers curiously, figuring that it’s only fair to know what he’s dealing with, “let me see you.”

The figure says nothing as it steps into a sliver of moonlight that invades through the window, illuminating pale skin and harsh features. The only thing that needs to be pointed out to Louis is that this _man_ is both bigger and taller than him, looming over him, large hands and long scars and sharp teeth bared intimidatingly.

A scream scratches at the back of Louis’ throat, but he takes a step forward on numb feet, pulling at his fingers. “You have my word,” he whispers, looking down at his toes. “I won’t leave. E-ever.”

The man smirks, shoves past Louis to get to Charlotte, and mutters, “so be it.”

Charlotte screams no, and Louis covers his eyes with his hands, sinking to the floor.

                                                                                                **//**

                When Harry unlocks Charlotte’s cell, he is forced to take a step back as she rushes towards her brother – _Louis_ – and tackles him, burying her head in the crook of his neck. It’s sickening, really, the affection, and Harry turns away, scowling out the window. He can’t help but to listen to the lovely voice of the boy, though, as he soothes his sister with a soft tone.

“I’m going to be okay, Lots,” he whispers, hushing the girl, who cries loudly. Harry is awfully tired of all the tears. “You’re going to get home safely, okay?” Louis sounds so nice. “And I’ll be just fine here. This place is a little like the castles in the stories I always read, right? Don’t you think? It’s so beautiful.”

“Why’re you doing this, Louis?” Charlotte asks, and Harry whips around to face the pair, his eyes narrowed. She sits in Louis’ lap, and Louis strokes her face, fixes her hair. She completely ignores her brother’s distracting question. “You’ve to stay here f-forever, he said.”

“I know, Lottie.” Louis sighs and works up a smile that Harry can tell is feigned, even through the dark. “Tell Mum and the girls that I’m alright, yeah? I’m just fine, can’t you see? I’ll be okay, too.”

“I’m going to tell the hunters so they can come and save you,” Charlotte promises, and that’s when Harry reaches his breaking point, ready to intrude the heartfelt moment between the two siblings. The very last thing he wants is more people invading his privacy, finding him, finding his monster.

“No, listen, d-don’t do that,” Louis says hastily, glancing at Harry momentarily. He must be able to tell that Harry is no longer having it.  “You don’t need to do that, I’ll be just–”

“Alright, come,” Harry says in a rough tone, grabbing Charlotte’s wrist. He pulls her to her feet, ignoring Louis’ cry to let them have two more minutes. Charlotte is silent as Harry leads her down from the dungeon, down the main stairwell, and to the foyer. He pushes open the front door and tugs her out alongside him, calling for a carriage, which rounds the corner of the castle and makes an appearance, teetering excitedly.

“Please don’t hurt my brother,” Charlotte requests quietly, eyeing the carriage with wide eyes. The doors to it open, and Harry lifts Charlotte inside crudely, leaning down to meet her gaze. She stares back with strength, although tears fill her eyes.

“Don’t come back,” Harry growls, closing the door and hoping that the girl understands his discreet threat. He steps back and watches the carriage move along noiselessly, away from the castle. When it makes it through the front gates, a dog gets up and trots behind it, barking angrily. Harry rolls his eyes and quickly goes back into the mansion, locking the door.

He heads back up to the dungeon, and when he is on the second floor, he is accompanied by Niall, who struggles to keep up with Harry’s long strides. “Um, master,” he says with a clear of his throat, sounding nervous. “Perhaps…since this boy will be staying here for, um, quite some time, maybe he’ll be more comfortable in one of the guest rooms?”

Harry pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, quickening his pace, his every intention being to ignore his former friend. It doesn’t take Niall very long to give up following him. Harry climbs the spiral stairwell to the chamber alone, and when he reaches it, Louis has already taken his place inside his sister’s previous cell, curled up on a patch of dry straw and looking out a small hole amongst the large cement stones.

He turns around when Harry shuffles his feet outside the cell, and tears streak his face, his eyes a brilliant blue, glistening beautifully. “You didn’t even let me say goodbye to her,” he accuses, rising shakily to his feet. He wipes his cheeks delicately and sniffles. “I’ll never see her again! I won’t ever see my mum or my other sisters ever again w-will I?”

Harry knows that he isn’t meant to answer the question. He frowns, running a hand through his hair and combing it back out of his face. Guilt churns in his gut, torn over seeing Louis so upset. He lets out a sigh, however, and looks down at a water puddle on the floor. “Let me…show you to your room,” he mumbles absentmindedly to change the direction of his heart and mind, scratching the back of his neck.

Louis’ eyebrows pinch together, and he takes a step forward, gesturing a thin arm out to the small imprisonment around him. “I thought I had to stay in here,” he admits shyly, rubbing his biceps. “Since this is where my sister stayed…”

“Do you _want_ to stay in here?” Harry asks, irritated, and when Louis quickly shakes his head no, Harry raises his eyebrows, humming. “I thought not. Come with me.”

Harry leaves the cell and makes sure Louis remains behind him as he goes back down the stairs. He meets Niall again, in the same spot as where he had abandoned him, and he picks him up, needing him for a source of light. The candle grumbles on about how it is about time that Harry listened to him. Harry continues walking, and it is like Louis isn’t there, for he is so quiet. Harry sneaks a look at him and his frown deepens further, eyes going soft.

Louis holds his head up, but his eyes stay closed for as long as they can before the two of them turn a corner. Tears continue to tread down his cheeks, but he makes no sound whatsoever. Harry swallows. Louis is beautiful, something Harry had picked up from the start. He’s small and thin, graceful like he’s had forever and a day to master his posture, walking quite some ways behind him. His hair, short and straight, frames his cheekbones and a soft jaw, golden brown and neat. His face, although it’s flushed red due to the crying, is smooth and flawless, gorgeously tan regardless of the continuously cloudy France skies.

Harry bites his lips and faces forward again, finding Niall’s eyes on him, smug and suggestive. Harry clenches his fist and squeezes the candlestick around the middle, his lips quirking up into a smirk as Niall gasps and takes a swing at him.

“Say something to him,” he whispers insistently after he collects himself, the flames on his hands flickering about. Harry licks his lips before clearing his throat, squinting ahead of him. He refuses to let his gaze fall upon the boy once more, wanting to keep his superiority. “I’m Harry,” he says quietly, rolling his eyes when Niall grins.

It takes a very long time for Louis to answer. Harry’s teeth bare and a growl starts up his gut, hating the feeling of being disregarded. He is ready to turn around and snap when the small boy does speak, his voice coy. “Louis,” he murmurs. “I’m Louis.”

Harry already knows this, but his heart still swells in a foreign manner in his chest. The name is beautiful, too, especially coming off of Louis’ tongue. Harry smiles to himself, proud to have stirred the boy into a small conversation, but he doesn’t let himself grow too excited, because Louis is his _prisoner_. “I hope you like it here,” he tells Louis, his words thick. He turns another corner, pauses and looks over his shoulder as he watches Louis’ eyes fall along the walls. “This is your home now, so you can go anywhere you want within the castle. Except the west wing; don’t ever go there. And- and you understand that you don’t leave, yes?”

“Yes, Harry,” Louis says softly. He shuffles forward a little bit, Harry happily notices. “What’s in the west wing? Why can’t I go there?”

“It doesn’t matter, because it’s forbidden and you don’t go there.” Harry quickly replies, his voice immediately rising to a shout that echoes. He turns and sees Louis recoiling back, stumbling over his shoes, looking down submissively.

“Got it,” Louis grumbles, falling silent once more.

Harry nods his head and walks a little further, finding the grandest of guest rooms for Louis to stay in. He opens the door and steps aside to allow Louis entrance, his eyes staying glued to the boy as he steps in and looks around.

No one has ever stayed in this room from what Harry can remember, although he knows that everything has been dusted and kept neat. A king-sized canopy bed sits in the middle of the room against the wall, purple satin curtains flowing down the four pillars of it. Two plush chairs sit in opposite corners, and a full-sized wardrobe closet is pressed beside a large window, which eagerly lets the moonlight slip through. Harry is pleased with his decision.

“If you need anything, one of my servants will attend to you,” Harry mutters. Louis’ back is turned to him, his shoulders squared. He stares straight ahead like he is ignoring Harry. Beside his head, Niall flails his arms, nearly forgotten. “What?” Harry hisses, and Niall leans in close, nearly burning Harry’s ear.

“Invite him to dinner tomorrow!” Niall says excitedly, pointing towards Louis. Harry purses his lips and nods. It is a good idea, he thinks.

“You…you are to have dinner with me tomorrow night,” he says confidently, and Louis’ back stays to him. Growling, Harry’s nerves spike, and he grips the doorknob to the room. “That’s an order,” he adds loudly before slamming the door shut.

Harry takes off down the hall, stopping at a window to let Niall down. Niall huffs and hops down onto the floor, glaring up at Harry. “I said _invite_ him to dinner, you loon,” he chides, and Harry sticks out a foot, kicking the candlestick over.

                                                                                                **//**

                Louis only leaves his bedroom once that evening, making sure he stays close to it as he wanders down the hall. He keeps his chin up high, hoping to look more confident than he feels, trying not to shake in on himself. His eyes are finally dry, although a hollow feeling in his chest makes it impossible for him to forget that he won’t ever see his family. Before he can make it any further than down the hall, a grandfather clock chimes louder than anything Louis has ever heard, scaring him and causing him to turn around to make a dash for his room.

He runs into something large and stiff before he can turn the corner he believes leads to his room, and he backs up, his eyes wide. The clock still rings a slow, grave song. “Harry.” The name leaves his mouth in a breathless whisper, and he quickly looks away.

Harry does not appear as scary as he had at first. He is rather grotesque, but his eyes are a nice green, making it a little easier to look at him. Everything else – the sharp teeth, the scars, the hair – may just be things he was unfortunately defaced with. Still, however, Louis does not plan on giving Harry any of his time, for he remains furious over this entire situation. As far as he is concerned, if he can’t run away, then the very least he can do is make Harry wish he’d let him leave with his sister.

“You’re out of your room,” Harry mutters like he is surprised, and Louis folds his arms over his chest, turning around completely and shuffling a few feet forward. “What do you need?”

“ _Obviously_ I am out of my room,” Louis retorts to empty air, staring straight ahead. The hallways seem endless, and Louis reminds himself to take a better look around when there is less of a chance of getting caught and bothered. Harry growls and Louis grows nervous, slowly dropping his hands from his chest but continuing to face the opposite direction. “I…I am looking for a bathroom,” he gives in, looking down. “I don’t know where it is and I would like to bathe before bed.”

Harry hums, and that’s it. Louis waits a while before turning back around, and when he does, Harry is walking in the opposite direction, leaving him. Louis yelps and follows, biting at his lip. Harry takes him to a door a few ways down from Louis’ new bedroom and tosses his head at it, clearing his throat. “Here it is,” he says with a sigh. “A toilet, a bathtub, you know. Towels are in the drawers beside the sink.”

Louis travels in an arc around Harry, not wanting to get too close to him. He can feel Harry’s gaze, and so he closes his eyes; doing so seems to be the only way he can find comfort and refuge. “Um, _merci_ ,” Louis breathes from the other side of the doorway as his fingers find the knob. There are a few quiet moments where Harry stands still and Louis keeps his eyes closed, waiting.

“I’m not going to harm you,” Harry says suddenly, and Louis looks up, surprised. Harry is licking his lips, parting them to speak, to explain, “That is not my intention, and I want you to know that.”

Louis’ blood runs slow and hot, heating his cheeks and ears. “Then why are you keeping me here?” he asks in a shrill voice, letting go of the doorknob to place his hands on his hips. “That makes absolutely no sense. You said earlier that I’m your prisoner – you’re holding me hostage, for goodness’ sake!”

“You don’t understand, little one, I don’t have much–”

“Little one!” Louis repeats furiously, throwing his hands up. His heart begins to hurt at the thought of Bern, him having been the only one to have ever called Louis that. The realization that he won’t ever see the man again hits him once more and his eyes tear up, only making him angrier. “Don’t call me that! You’re so ridiculous, Harry, of course I understand! You’re keeping me here because you’re _mean_! You kept my sister here – were you even going to feed her? Help her keep warm? Were you just going to let her die if I didn’t come _save her_?”

“Shut up, Louis!” Harry shouts, taking a frightening step forward. Louis cringes back, knowing that Harry is only taking advantage of the differences between their sizes. Harry is big and scary, and they both know it, for recognition hangs in the air and circles around both of their heads like a vice. “God, you’re such a child. There’s the fucking bathroom.”

Louis looks off to the side and stares hard, remaining silent and staring at the perfectly painted wall. He waits until Harry storms off to even move, and waits even longer until he hears several doors slam. He is motionless for several minutes before opening the bathroom door and sliding inside, drowning out his angry thoughts.

As he sits in his warm bath, letting scented bubbles dance along his skin, he allows his salty tears to mix with the sweet bathwater. He wants to go home, wants to hug his mother close, but he knows he’ll have to let his pillow suffice for a while and keep in mind that his sister needs her more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's my [Tumblr](http://elysianrain.tumblr.com/) in case any of you want to follow :)


	5. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a while and I apologize; school has been a little time-consuming. I hope you enjoy, though, and I really would like to hear what you think. :)

The light that seeps in through Louis’ window stirs him awake, and he pivots a little to the right to successfully bury his face into one of the many lavender pillows that cover the head of his bed, huffing drowsily. It takes him a few minutes to recollect his thoughts as to where he is; back home, his bedroom doesn’t even have a window to let light in through, and he needs a while to figure out exactly why it is happening now.

He opens his eyes and sighs, rolling over onto his back. He stares up at the high ceiling, gazing along the perimeter of it, where little cherubs are carved intricately into the wall, faceless and frozen. This bedroom is almost bigger than the entirety of his home in the village. It’s surreal, and Louis wishes he were able to share how pretty it all looks to his mother, to his sisters, to Bern. He compares himself to the princesses in all the fairytales he reads; takes the places of princesses  who wake up with flawless hair and have to worry about nothing other than which of the expensive dresses would be worn for the day. This all would be very nice if he weren’t stuck here forever with a man who was also a temperamental monster.

 Considering the circumstances, Louis is lucky, and he knows it. He very well could have been locked in the chamber to freeze and starve, but he is instead in a large, warm bed with silky sheets, tangled up comfortably between them. His sister is okay, undoubtedly back home, and that is what makes everything all right. If she had not have made it, his mother would have sent someone for help, which does not seem to be the case.

In the back of his head, Louis knows he does not want anyone to come find him. He is safe, as it had been established last night – he is not going to get hurt. As long as no one comes near the castle, everyone will be just fine. Grimacing, Louis hopes Charlotte took it seriously when he told her not to have anyone try and take him home; keeping everyone away will keep everyone safe.

It’s all a lot to process, and Louis still can’t think about it for very long without tearing up, and in order to sufficiently take his mind off of it, Louis slips into a light sleep again, pinching his eyes shut from the midday sun. No more than ten minutes later, however, a piercing voice squeals good afternoon from outside Louis’ door, and the sound is accompanied by a series of gentle knocks.

Louis yawns and sits up on one elbow, frowning grumpily. He knows that the voice does not belong to Harry because it is much too friendly and bright. Louis rubs the sleep from his eyes and sits up completely, slouching forward with a lazy grunt.

“Um, come in,” he murmurs, and the door is quickly thrown open as several kitchen utensils make an appearance. A fork bounces along the floor, as does a dinner plate stacked with waffles. A teapot shuffles towards the foot of Louis’ bed and manages to not spill a drop of its contents, while a tiny teacup totters behind it. 

“Good afternoon!” The teapot says cheerily once more, and Louis giggles a little despite his disbelief, pushing himself up on all fours and crawling over to the edge of the bed. He leans down and outstretches a hand, helping the silverware up onto the bed with precaution. He looks the teapot in her grey, cartoonish eyes, cocking his head to the side.

“You’re talking,” he whispers in awe, picking up the fork that twirls into his hand. He holds it delicately while eyeing the teacup, peering at it as curiously as he did the pot. He had heard the candlestick talking last night, had seen the way its arms flailed wildly, but he had been too angry to fully process it. He didn’t think this home would be full of talking objects. “You’re alive!”

“Of course we are, dearest.” The teapot says it like it makes sense for inanimate objects to personify. She is made of simple porcelain with little hand-drawn pink and blue flowers decorating it. Her spout blows steam when she speaks. “We were starting to think you _weren’t_ alive, however,” she continues with a bubbly chuckle, hustling over to the teacup and tipping herself, carefully pouring tea into the tiny, giggling cup. “You’ve been asleep for quite some time. It’s past one, but we figured we’d still bring you breakfast. Nothing beats waffles, hm?”

Louis hums in agreement, smiling softly. He grips the fork and pokes at the plate of waffles that wormed its way into his lap. “Thank you,” he says quietly, and he prods at his food gently, taking hesitant bites. “Do you all have names? Who made you able to talk?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” the teapot sighs, and Louis pouts, staying quiet as the pot continues, “but it isn’t important, anyways. I am Louise, and this little one right here is my daughter Lux.”

“I’m Lux,” the little teacup confirms, shuffling into Louis’ lap. Louis picks her up in two careful hands and grins at her before taking a sip of the tea, laughing as she squirms around between his fingers. “That _tickles_ , mister!”

Louis bumps his nose against the teacup and hums, his heart warm with affection. This is completely odd, making things feel even more like a fairytale. He really likes it. “Sorry, little lady.” He sets her down gently onto the mattress beside him and stabs another piece of his waffle, chewing on a corner of it thoughtfully. “You remind me of my baby sister,” he whispers. “Her name is Fizzy.”

“Where is Fizzy?” Lux asks, and Louis’ lips curve into a frown. He can’t muster any form of smile because his heart gets too heavy in his chest, so he crams his mouth full of waffle, looking away and out the window.

“She’s safe at home, darling, just like the rest of Louis’ family,” Louise answers gently, and Louis is unsure of whom she is talking to – her daughter or himself. Regardless, the reminder makes Louis feel better, and he exhales deeply through his nose, swallowing and nodding his head in clarification. He smiles down at Lux.

“And, you know, that was quite a brave thing you did, staying here for your sister,” Louise adds quietly. “A very fearless young man, you are.”

“Uh, thank you, really, but my… I lost everything, miss.” Louis swallows something thick in his throat. He speaks softly, finding the words sticking like glue to his tongue, hard to get out. “I won’t see my sisters ever again. Or my mother, you know? I’m trying my best to be positive about it, because, well, this is all so beautiful, this place and everything, but it’s a little hard.”

“I understand, my dear, but I have a feeling that things will work out just fine.” Louise sounds so sure, her big eyes friendly and bright, and Louis sees Lux giggling, tea dribbling onto the bed sheets. The corners of his lips twitch up ever so slightly despite his glum mood.

“Where, um…where is Harry?” he asks timidly in a hasty attempt to change the course of the conversation, quirking up a questioning eyebrow. He doesn’t want to come off as curious about Harry’s whereabouts – the man still angers him. However, he can’t help but wonder. “Is he around?”

“Why, Louis?” Louise’s eyes continue to sparkle. It makes Louis just a little nervous. “Would you like to see him? I believe he’s tolerable right now – you know, that only comes rarely. He may be eating lunch, or perhaps locked up in his room. Shall I find someone to fetch him for you?”

“No! _Non, c’est bien_ ,” Louis breathes, and he takes one last bite of his brunch before setting his plate and fork aside. The dishes are quick to hop off of the bed and scamper out of the room. Louis watches with a giggle and a bitten lip, pulling his bed sheets back up around his shoulders with every intention to fall back asleep with a full belly.

“Now, no time for sleeping, young man,” Louise says before Louis can flop back down onto his back, and Louis gives her an incredulous look, furrowing his eyebrows. “You’re to get ready for dinner tonight,” she explains. “We can’t have you in those clothes from yesterday evening, and we certainly cannot have you in what you’re wearing now.”

Louis looks down at his chest and feels his face burn; he hadn’t had anything else to put on from his bath last night, so he’d slept in his underwear, relying on the covers to keep him warm, which they had done. He blinks and looks up, cocks his head to the side. “I’m not going to dinner, Louise,” he chuckles, shaking his head. He sits up as straight as he can, stretching himself out with another yawn.

Meanwhile, Louise frowns, looking as if she doesn’t understand. “But you must, Louis!” she insists. “Harry said that you’ve _got_ to attend!” Her porcelain expression lets up a little; softens. “Okay, I know that he wasn’t the politest about it, but he was simply frustrated!”

“ _He_ was frustrated?” Louis pouts, leaning forward once more in a slouch. “What about how _I_ feel? I will not be eating dinner with him as long as he’s being as childish as he is, and I don’t even know if I want to associate with him since he _is_ the one who is keeping me prisoner. And the _cursing_ , _mon Dieu_ , how unattractive, you know? Even if he isn’t the- the _handsomest_ of men, I’d appreciate it if he didn’t swear so much.”

“You, you don’t understand, Harry is–”

“I don’t like it when you tell me that I don’t understand,” Louis mumbles. He is rude to interrupt, he knows, but he is already tired of being told that he doesn’t get it, that he does not know. All he _needs_ to know is that he is now without his family and he cannot leave this big, lonely home. Regardless, he doesn’t raise his voice like he had with Harry, not wanting to cross the little teapot. She means well. “I would not like to have dinner with Harry tonight. If he’s not okay with my decision, then simply remind him that _I_ am not okay with being locked up here.”

“Very well, Louis,” Louise mumbles after a moment of silence, and she looks to her little daughter, sighing like she’s given up. Louis is glad that she didn’t put forth another argument. She begins to shuffle off of the bed with as much grace as a teapot can muster. “Come along, Lux; let’s go inform the kitchen staff about Louis’ decision. And Louis, don’t you dare fall back asleep, it’s past time you got up. Even if you aren’t going to dinner, you need to get dressed. Victoria over here will find you proper clothes to wear.”

Louise reminds Louis of his mother, and he smiles, figuring that, if she isn’t around, then the teapot might as well be the one to scold him about. “Yes, ma’am,” he says politely, and then he raises a suspicious eyebrow, watching Louise and Lux hop out of the room. “Who is Victoria?” he calls.

“Over here, my sweet boy!”

When Louis faces the voice, he is directed to the wardrobe that once sat across the room from the bed. It hobbles forward now, its doors swinging. Two brown eyes appear at the very top of the wardrobe, and Louis grins again, scrambling out of bed and standing up. He is half naked, something he would only pay mind to if he were in front of an actual human.

“Hello there!” he laughs.

                                                                                                **//**

                “I think this could be it, Harry,” Niall says with excitement, and he teeters along the top of the fireplace, his flames bright like they always are when he’s got a plan inside his head. Liam sits nearby, swinging his feet, always with Niall, because the two have been inseparable ever since they were doomed to stay here forever.

Harry sits in his chair and watches the two with a raised eyebrow, combing his fingers through his hair absentmindedly. It’s short now and much neater than how it is at any other hour of the day, curls falling around his ears and above his eyebrows. It isn’t the same, however; his hair is not the young mop of admiring curls it was before this happened.

He cannot complain, though, because he likes it when he’s like this. He isn’t too tall and he doesn’t look scary. His teeth are normal, his hands, his face. It isn’t the same as every day before age eighteen, but it’s better. His poor attitude is still present, like Louise always tells him, but he is more manageable as a person. He’s glad that dinner is so soon, so Louis will not have to see him as a monster.

He is better like this and Harry wants Louis to see it.

“What could be it, Niall?” Harry asks gently with a sigh. He slouches down further into his chair, crossing his arms lazily across his chest. He is bored. He has been bored for five years straight, but even more so now that his one interest has shut himself out entirely. Harry had not even heard from Louis, not since last night, not since he had gotten on his nerves so much that he was torn between knocking him out and smiling in surrender to the slight awe he felt. Louis is opinionated like no one he’s ever seen, but his voice is honeyed; high-pitched and indignant. Harry is nothing short of entranced.

“Louis could be the boy who’s supposed to break the curse,” Niall says, and Harry makes a face, narrowing his eyes as a motion for the lad to go on. Niall does, with vigor, “I mean, he’s the only young man we’ve ever had here, yes? Every other time it’s been old men and little boys and girls who are either lost or curious. Louis came here for a reason – his sister. I don’t think you should let this one go. Haven’t you thought about how odd it is?”

“Of course I have,” Harry says sharply, even though it is a lie. He hadn’t thought about this situation in a whole like Niall had; he had simply been imagining a small, lithe boy to call his own and break the curse. He sits up some, propping his elbow up on the arm of the chair and setting his chin into the palm of his hands. He stares into the flames in the fireplace, frowning. “I’ve not been planning on letting him go. I want him to stay. I want him to like me. He’s absolutely beautiful, though, and, like, I- I’m–” Harry looks up before he finishes and finds both Niall and Liam wearing toothy grins. He flushes, partly in embarrassment and partially in anger, as he leans forward and growls. “You know what, fuck you both.”

Niall cackles right then, angering Harry further. He seems unfazed by it, which is no surprise. Niall has known Harry long enough to become immune to whatever Harry throws his way. “That’s your problem, Harry,” he says casually. “You’re too hostile. You need to make Louis feel like he wants to spend time with you. Right now, _I_ don’t even want to spend time with you! Louis shut himself in his room because you took his family from him, not to mention his freedom. The least you can do is make him feel welcomed and appreciated.”

“Compliment him, maybe,” Liam suggests helpfully. Niall looks over to the clock and nods seriously, shaking one flame-covered hand.

“Yes,” he agrees, “but you shouldn’t smother the boy, and you must be sincere.”

“Tell him about yourself!” Liam pipes next. “Impress him!”

“Absolutely, but don’t boast.”

“Act like a proper gentleman. Straight posture, attentive look, everything your parents taught you. If you want to attract Louis, you’ve got to look nice for him.”

“Smile at him. Come on, smile. Smile right now. I haven’t seen you do as much as smirk in ages.”

Harry glares hard at his two companions but sits up, straightening his back and placing his hands in his lap. His lips quirk up into an attempted smile, and then he shows his teeth, looking towards Niall for a response. He wants to do this for Louis – he wants to make the young man happy to be here since he is not with his family.

“We’re going to work on it,” Niall breathes after analyzing Harry, nodding frantically. “I suppose it needs to come naturally, but that’s easy. This is all so easy! You fall in love with him, he falls in love with you, and there we go, the curse is broken! I say we’ll all be human again in three days, at _most_!”

“Oh, Ni, it’s not that easy,” Liam murmurs, “falling in love takes _time_. I know we don’t have much of it, but–”

“We don’t have much of it at all!” Niall shouts, throwing up his arms. “The rose is already wilting! If this is going to happen, it has to happen–”

“On Louis’ time,” Liam finishes sternly. He hops off of the fireplace, landing on the hardwood floor with a thud. “Love is a precious thing. It needs to be done right. If you’re patient with him, Harry, and patient with yourself, then everything will be fine. Tonight at dinner, do everything we told you as well as what you know. You’re not dense, Harry, you’re just angry, and you need to work on that. Louis hasn’t done a thing to you.”

Harry stares blankly before directing his gaze down towards his feet. He doesn’t nod his head or say anything, but he knows that Liam understands that he is going to play along. He will do it – he’ll do it because he’ll be like this forever if he continues to act like a brat.

“I’m going to go fetch Louise,” Liam mumbles, starting towards the entrance of the living room. “She’s been with Louis since this afternoon. They ought to be ready for dinner.”

Liam isn’t able to totter out of the living room before Louise comes hustling in with Lux scurrying closely behind her. She greets Liam kindly before making her way towards Harry’s chair, settling at his feet. Lux bumps into Harry’s big toe with a giggle and a, “Hiya, Harry!”

“Hey, kiddo,” Harry whispers, bending himself in half in order to reach down and collect the little teacup, who smiles largely. He is quite fond of the little girl, as well as her mother. Harry looks down to Louise, furrowing his eyebrows. “Where’s Louis?” he asks.

“Um, well,” Louise looks up at the mantle of the fireplace, at Niall, before sighing. “I talked to Louis a few hours ago, you see, and I- I was just in the kitchen telling the chefs…to discontinue with the meal. Louis…he has decided against attending dinner tonight.”

“Fuck,” Niall curses. He hops off of the mantle and joins everyone else on the floor. He shakes what Harry thinks to be a fist. “Harry, don’t you dare–”

“I _told_ him to, though!” Harry rises from his seat and sets Lux down before storming out of the foyer, rushing down the hallways and up the stairs that lead to Louis’ room. He is livid, angry thoughts dancing in his head – who does Louis think he is? Who gave him the right to decide what he wanted to do? Harry mutters to himself as he stomps up the staircase, his eyes narrowed and staring straight ahead. All the while, Niall, Liam, Louise, and Lux follow behind as quickly as they can, reasoning and pleading.

“Harry, don’t be mean!” Liam shouts. His voice is far away, his little legs unable to climb the stairs at a normal pace. “And stop going so fast! And- and remember what we told you!”

“Fuck off!” Harry hisses, and he stops in front of Louis’ door, staring angrily at it with red vision. He hears Louis humming softly, a tune he has never heard before. It’s a pretty sound, momentarily replacing the anger that bubbles in Harry’s chest.

It is only momentary.  

He knocks hard with the base of his palm, fingers curled in a tight fist as he leans close to the door. Louis’ singing squeaks to an abrupt stop, and after three seconds, he answers quietly, slowly, “hello?”

“I told you to come to dinner!” Harry shouts into the door, uncurling his fist in order to wrap his hand around the doorknob. He turns it only to find it locked, and he smacks the palm of his hand against the door, ignoring the sting that it brings. “Why the hell aren’t you coming?”

“I’m not hungry!” Louis says immediately, his voice stern and hard. His own voice gets louder as he steps closer to the door. “And- and stop yelling! I’m right on the other side of the door!”

“Open it!” Harry hollers, disregarding Louis’ wish, and he jiggles the doorknob again, growling out in frustration. “Open it or I’ll fucking break it down!” Someone tugs insistently at the base of his pants, and Harry whips around and looks down, eyes narrowed. Niall is at his feet, staring up at him disapprovingly.

“Perhaps you should take on a lighter tone,” he says harshly, crossing his arms. Liam is just now waddling up behind him, looking severely annoyed and breathless. “Hold your temper. _Doux_ , gentle.”

“And don’t swear,” Louise chimes in, sounding concerned. “He’s informed me that he doesn’t like swearing.”

Harry inwardly groans, leaning forward and resting his forehead against the door. It’s a lot to remember: being nice, smiling, not cursing, but of course he is going to try to remember to do it – for Louis. He’s going to make a strong attempt at trying, at least. He sucks in a deep breath and holds it until he feels lightheaded, releasing it before gazing at the door like he believes he’ll be able to see through it and find Louis staring back, his arms crossed and his petite frame appearing even tinier.

“I’d appreciate it if you came to dinner with me,” he says softly, gritting his teeth. He drops his hands down by his sides and clenches them into fists. Closes his eyes. “I think…we’d have a- a really nice time.”

“No, thank you.” The response is so sudden that Harry hardly had time to listen for it. Louis is awfully bold, sassy, sharp.  “I’m very comfortable in here.”

Harry hears Niall sigh. An impatient roar starts in Harry’s throat as he opens his eyes, but before it can be released, the grandfather clock chimes, ringing loudly within the mansion. He’s got five minutes to retreat back to his own bedroom. Five o’clock will not be a happy hour.

“Easy with him, Harry,” Liam quickly murmurs as a reminder, and Harry grumbles, mocking him under his breath.

“He’s being _difficult_ , Liam, _Je ne peux pas l’aider_!” he exclaims, and he bangs his head on the door once more, deciding to make another attempt. “Please, Louis? I promise that–”

“No,” Louis repeats slowly. The firmness in his voice is gone now, replaced by something of calmness and serenity. “I’m not coming out, but thank you for the proper invitation.”

“Dammit,” Harry breathes, and something within him snaps, and he raises his voice above all of the little voices that surround him, scolding and prompting. Louis saying no was not what he wanted. He wants Louis to know that this is not _okay_ , that he can’t go about doing what _he_ wants. “If you’re not going to eat with me, then you’re not going to eat at all,” is what he comes up with, his voice loud, “and you aren’t to come out of your room.”

“You’re going to starve the boy?” Louise asks incredulously, but Harry is not listening, stepping his way around the furniture at his feet. He is already out of time, as his hair is growing long and sticky again. His hands are getting paler, his fingers longer. In a matter of moments, he will be unsightly to everyone in his wake. He needs to leave.

He starts furiously down the hall at a run, but at the very end of the corridor, he stops and listens, his heart beating up in his ears. He hears giggling, soft and gentle. Louis’ voice is silky as he talks to the furniture; his door has got to be opened, and he is already defying Harry, much to his annoyance.

“I’m alright, Louise, thank you,” Harry hears him say. The teapot’s voice is too gentle for Harry to hear, but Louis giggles again and he decides over furious feelings that he enjoys the sound, “ _thank you_.”

Harry looks away and runs towards the west wing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [Tumblr](http://elysianrain.tumblr.com/)


	6. V.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Here is where things sort of unfold; we can get into the exciting bits now. Comments and kudos would be really great :) x. Enjoy!

                By the time Louis’ stomach growls for the third time, he has gotten adapted to ignoring it, warding it off with a deep sigh and a seething gaze towards his bedroom door. It is much harder for him to overcome boredom when he doesn’t have a book in his hand and instead has to stare at wood, and the fact that he can’t read has his palms itching to feel the paper or leather backs of his favorite books, his fingertips tingling with the need to turn worn-down pages.

He wants to curl up on his bed and read, but all he can do is stare out the window, not even up for chatting with Victoria, who makes several attempts at asking how Louis is feeling, what his family is up to lately, his interests regarding his schooling. After the fourth or fifth question that Louis had completely ignored with a blink and a frown, she’d wished him a quiet goodnight and sank back against the wall, leaving Louis to feel more alone than ever.

Louis counts the hours that chime by on the big grandfather clock that he still has yet to lay his eyes on. After the slow, solemn tune it plays bores Louis to death, it rings the time – this time, eleven long rings tell Louis that it is too late for his liking. He cannot go to bed on an empty stomach, however, nor will he, so after a final grumble in his lower belly and another gaze at the door, Louis pouts his lips and gets out of his bed, making a hasty exit before he can change his mind.  He slips between a crack in the door and closes it slowly, quietly, pinching his eyes shut when it clicks to a close. He takes two breaths before realizing that, if he were to be caught by Harry, it would have already happened, and turning around, tugging at the end of his long night shirt.

The hallways are as dark and scary as they had been yesterday, even though his first appearance in this castle now seems to have happened ages ago. It seems like eternities have passed since he’s seen his family, and the hole in his chest opens up and engulfs him as he thinks about how there will be an actual eternity before he does in fact reunite with them. He keeps one hand on the wall as he walks so he knows when to turn corners, for there are no lanterns lighting the way, and he keeps his ears open for Harry, not wanting another encounter.

Louis doesn’t want much to do with him, if anything. If he cannot leave the castle, he will at least make himself scarce enough to live in a way that feels like he’s on his own. He hopes to avoid Harry to the best of his ability; he’ll sneak out at late hours such as this if he has to.

Louis hasn’t been into the kitchen before, and he silently steps into it, looking around and using the stoves and ovens that line the walls as a confirmation of his destination. It’s still so dark, the moonlight providing next to no relief, resulting in Louis bumping his hip against a counter, whining quietly as pain shoots through his nerves, causing him to double over.

“Harry?” Louise asks. Her voice is unmistakable, and Louis freezes as soon as he hears her, momentarily afraid that Harry is near as well; lurking behind him in the shadows, stalking him. Louis straightens up and glances slowly over his shoulder, though he finds nothing but several shelves with several spices lining them. It isn’t until Louise voices Harry’s name once more than Louis releases a breath, rubbing his hip.

“No, no, Mama Lou.” The words slip off of Louis’ tongue, and he likes them, so he continues with a small smile, “it’s me. It’s Louis. I just- I just hit my side, that’s all. Sorry.”

“Oh, dearie,” Louise says fondly, and the sounds of her hopping along the floor echoes throughout the kitchen. “No worries. We’ve been waiting for you, you know. We were ready to bring something up to you! Niall, honey, where are you? Give us some light and go fetch Liam so we can feed Louis, the poor boy.”

“I haven’t actually met those two, you know,” Louis says meekly, glancing around as the kitchen is illuminated by the talking candlestick, who does not make an appearance. However, other candles within the kitchen alight quickly, none of them seemingly animated. “I know of- of Niall, because he was with Harry yesterday, but I haven’t seen Liam before. Is he…,” Louis flushes, “well, is he one of you?”

Louise chuckles and leads Louis into the dining room, which makes the little kitchen nook in Louis’ home look like child’s play. A grand, deep-cherry wooden table takes up the entire length of the room, and a golden chandelier hangs above it, giving Louis something perfectly acceptable to gawk at. He is still staring at it as he pats around for and sits himself down in one of the chairs on one of the ends of the table, squeaking as the chair pushes itself in, bringing him closer.

“They’ll be around shortly, sweets,” Louise says brightly, joining Louis at the table. She rests on the surface of it, eyeing him, smiling. “And Liam is a clock, dear, and a rather wound-up one, at that; there’s no need to sound reluctant. Being referred to as furniture isn’t too bad. Now, what would you like to eat? We can prepare absolutely anything under the sun.”

Louis worries his bottom lip between his teeth, finally drawing his eyes away from the glorious chandelier and settling them on the teapot. He takes the napkin that is folded cutely in front of him and places it in his lap. “I’d really like some soup,” he says slowly, pinching his belly as it growls again. “Soup and some tea would be really, _really_ nice.”

“Can do, Louis,” Louise starts, but before the last syllable of Louis’ name can be pronounced, the clock who must be Liam and then Niall come careening into the dining room, hopping onto the table.

“What on Earth is this?” Liam asks first, gazing between Louise and Louis. Louis clears his throat and sits up straighter, but as he opens his mouth to greet the clock, Liam speaks again. Louis isn’t sure whom his words are directed to, but they still hit hard. “You heard what the master said! He isn’t supposed to eat at all! When did he even emerge from his room?”

“That’s hardly appropriate, Liam; Louis is not a prisoner,” Niall chastises quickly, shuffling forward. He bows before Louis, and Louis breaks out into a grin despite Liam’s disheartening words, reaching out to rebelliously brush his finger along the flame on his head. It is hot; the candle is real. Niall grins wide as he introduces himself, “My name is Niall Horan. Please excuse Liam, he’s a hothead.”

“The nerve you’ve got, you’re a bloody candle,” Liam grumbles, crossing his short, plump arms. He looks utterly disinterested as he starts up the table, closing his eyes superiorly. “My name is Liam Payne. Perchance you are unaware of what mister Styles told you. Did you hear the part where you were forbidden to come eat unless you were accompanied by Harry? It’s much too late for dinner, anyway, so perhaps you can try again tomorrow.”

Louis slumps back into his seat and crosses his arms, a pout playing at his lips. He would not have thought that the fun, animated furniture that kept this castle alive would be so strict and rude. “I’m hungry, though, and my choice of not eating with Harry shouldn’t keep me from eating at all.”

“That’s right, Louis,” Louise coos, and Louis is positive that, if the teapot were a proper human, she would be nodding in praise. “We are going to feed Louis because he is our _guest_ , mind you, Liam. Now, would you be a doll and go get the silverware? And tell everyone that we’ll be preparing soup and tea.”

“Alright, Louise,” Liam sighs after a long, chocolate brown stare, and Louis watches silently as the small clock climbs off of the table, landing with off-balanced footing onto the carpet. He waddles back into the kitchen, pushing open the grand doors that lead to it, and once the locks click shut, Louis turns back to Niall and Louise.

“My name is Louis Tomlinson,” he whispers. “Sorry for coming out so late; I didn’t want Harry to find me.”

“Oh, Louis,” Louise and Niall say simultaneously, and Louis stifles a giggle, biting his lip. “Like I said earlier, he’ll shape up,” Louise continues. “I’ll see to it that he does! Do you remember me saying that?”

“I remember,” Louis confirms with a nod of his head, beaming. A draft picks up around his bare feet as the kitchen door swings open, and Louis crosses his ankles, pulling down his nightshirt so it falls a little closer to shielding his chilly skin. “You’ve known Harry for a while now, then?” he asks conversationally as the silverwares make their appearances, bouncing onto the table and sitting themselves in front of Louis: two plates, a bowl, and a spoon. They haven’t got eyes, but they still squirm anxiously from where they are placed, and Louis is unsure of anything else to do other than to pet at the utensils like he would his dog.

“A _while_ ,” Niall scoffs. He tilts his chin up, lifting a flaming hand as if he is pledging. The fire whips around, little sparks drifting off and onto the table. “I’ve known Harry since he born, did you know that?” Louis shakes his head – of course he did not know. “Now, I wasn’t even a year older than him at that time, but we played together up until he turned eighteen. I stuck with him even as he was a little brat, too.”

“Niall, that’s not polite,” Louise begins with a sigh, but Louis’ eyebrows rise with interest and he leans forward, swiping his fringe back out of his face. He waves Louise off as politely as he can manage, giving her a sheepish smile.

“Why aren’t you guys mates anymore?” he asks in a hushed tone, turning back to Niall. “What happened when he turned eighteen? Did you guys have a row?”

“Something like that.” Niall side glances at Louise, who throws back a look of warning. Both of them open their mouths to, once more, speak at once, but before anything is said, Liam’s voice interrupts cautiously but surely as he speeds into the dining room.

“We’ve got leftover potato soup, ginger tea, and French bread for the _guest_ ,” he says when he climbs atop the table. Bowls and dishes follow along suit, balancing sliced bread and warm, savory soup, seemingly dancing with the excitement of serving someone.

Louis claps his hands as the soup is poured into his bowl, as slices of the toasted bread make their way to his small plate. The entire display is surreal, and Louis almost feels like he should write a book about this, maybe even an autobiography. A teapot like Louise pours Louis’ tea, and once it’s filled to the brim, Louis immediately grabs for his cup, its contents nearly burning his palms as he takes a grateful sip.

“I think I know what happened to you guys,” he says after a moment, setting down his tea. He is quick to start on his soup, breaking off small pieces and dunking it in before feeding his belly, chewing, chewing, glancing at the ceiling. “Like- how you’re all furniture or…or silverware, you know? I was thinking about it last night.”

“Yeah? What did you come up with?” Louise smiles, and Louis squirms as he straightens up, stirring his spoon in his soup.

“Y-you guys are enchanted,” he barely breathes, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. His cheeks flush as soon as the words leave his mouth, because if he were to spout his ideas to anyone else, he would receive a laugh and would be told to grow up, to be more realistic. Zayn wouldn’t have a single word of it. Niall grins, however, and Liam even manages a smile. This only spurs Louis on, and, filling his mouth with chunky bits of potato, he wags his spoon lightly in the air. They haven’t denied his prediction yet, so it _must_ be true. “I’ve _never_ been in an enchanted castle before. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.” He swallows. “Honest.”

“Louis, you sure do know how to make someone feel special,” Louise giggles, and she hops forward a little more, nodding at Louis’ food. A slice and a half of bread has already been consumed, as well as a good portion of his soup. Louis had been hungrier than he’d thought. She watches casually as Louis eats, listening to him speak about the food, how cozy the room is, how nice everyone appears – save for Harry. “Finish up now, my love,” she whispers when Louis’ spoon is scraping the bottom of his bowl,  “and then it’s off to bed.”

“There’s no way I could go to bed now, Mama Lou,” Louis says as he slips a chunk of bread between his lips. He gazes up at the chandelier before to his left at the large mirrors that hardly show the snow that’s drifting outside. “Let me look around the castle! Oh, please? I’ll be in bed before midnight!”

Liam, who’d been cautiously watching, listening, steps in with a sigh, crossing his little arms again. Louis quickly sticks in the back of his mind that the crossing of Liam’s arms is never good. “Louis, you _know_ what Harry said.”

“Who cares what Harry said?” Louis grumbles, and he wipes the corner of his lips with the silky napkin that he’d placed in his lap earlier. He takes a final sip of his tea and thanks everyone with a soft smile, petting at his stomach for good measure. He then grabs Niall as carefully as possible around the middle, raising him up to eye level and squinting at him. “I hope you don’t mind this,” Louis chuckles, and Niall shakes his head, raising his arms, posing like a proper candlestick.

Louise clears her throat. “Niall and Liam can show you around while I clean up, but Louis, if you aren’t in bed by quarter-to-twelve, you’re in trouble.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Louis pushes in his chair with his hip, glancing over his shoulder and smiling down at the teapot. “Have a good night, really, and thank you again.” He waits for Liam to lower himself down onto the carpet before starting forward at a fast pace, giggling as Niall whispers to him the directions of certain places within the mansion. His voice radiates literal warmth, his accent different and thick, and this becomes the first time that Louis doesn’t entirely deem this _experience_ the end of the world.

                                                                                                **//**

                Harry doesn’t dream. He isn’t sure how that came to be; only knows that now, everything is bland, colorless, boring. His inability to dream is one of the reasons he dreads going to bed every night, followed by the thought of waking up to another lifeless day.

Harry knows he stopped dreaming a good month after his curse was set upon him, and that month consisted of dreams that weren’t anything to look forward to. It was the same thing every other night, if not _every_ night: he’d be running down the halls, his appearance mimicking that of a monster. People would be cowering away. His parents were nowhere in sight. When Harry woke up with a shout every time in the early morning, he’d touch his face to find that the nightmare was far from over.

Harry fights sleep as he stands by his window, pushing the drapes aside. There isn’t much to see from his window. It looks out into the backyard, where the garden is dead. The stone is covered in a half-inch of snow, as is the ground, and it would look pretty if Harry believed in pretty things anymore.

Harry blinks and steps away from the window, letting the curtain fall to a close. That is a lie; Louis is certainly the prettiest thing he’s seen in five whole years. It weighs Harry down, Louis’ beauty, and makes him feel even more frustrated that he couldn’t get the boy to attend dinner with him.

A shuffle within the huge room startles Harry, and he turns around, stepping over the broken leg of a chair to look towards the door, peering around his bed. His room is a mess of ripped clothing and broken glass, and he can hardly even sleep on his bed, for the legs wobble and the mattress is split apart and his headboard is cracked.

Harry sees that his bedroom is door is cracked open, and with furrowed eyebrows, he moves to investigate it, tripping over his feet in order to avoid the glass from broken mirrors that is scattered haphazardly on the hardwood floor. A petite little frame scurries across like a hesitant mouse. For once, Harry is not surprised to find Louis creeping about in the corners with his hands splayed out in front of him to help him feel around for objects. He begins to realize that Louis isn’t good at making himself scarce and unnoticed. Harry knows that he himself is unseen, for he is in the shadows, the drawn curtains making his side of the room look like an abyss.

“Oomph,” Louis squeaks as he stumbles over a chair, and Harry rolls his eyes, hating the twitch in his lips that urges him to smile. If he weren’t so keen on watching the boy, if he weren’t so entranced by it, he’d have intervened, and he tells himself that the moment Louis slips up, he’ll _stop it._

Harry winds up completely thrown off by the way Louis moves, however; how he tiptoes around with acute balance, how quickly he can get his hips to turn, how broad they are, how they curve upwards into a slim waist. His pajamas consist of only an overlarge cotton shirt and then whatever’s beneath it, and the thought of that alone has Harry biting his lip, eyes roaming. And he is so caught up that he doesn’t realize what’s going on until Louis cautiously removes the felt blanket that covers the glass case with the rose in it. He drops it to the ground below the small table that it is perched on, and then the entire room is aglow, pink light bouncing off of every given surface.

At this point, Harry lunges forward, ignoring the way that rays of rose reflect off of Louis’ hair and the way it twists with his body as he bends down to stare into the glass. His entirety is a pink hue, and Harry briefly thinks about how well it suits the small boy as he stalks behind, soon at a close enough distance to touch him, to breathe along the back of his neck.

Harry guesses that it is his shadow that catches Louis’ eye, because the small boy’s head jerks up and his body whips around, not quite knocking the entire pedestal with the rose on it over but causing it to wobble dangerously. A series of half-attempted apologies leave his mouth as Harry curses and reaches behind him to balance the stand, his heartbeat in his ears.

“Louis, what the fuck,” he breathes once he is positive that the rose is balanced. His tone is growing that familiar hardness, he knows, and when he stands up straight, he sees that Louis is cowering away, his eyes wide with the fact that he’s been caught. The pink conjoined with the blue-grey of his eyes has got to be the most breathtaking thing Harry has ever seen, and that eats away at him, makes him angrier because it’s almost as if he can’t control himself. “What did I tell you about coming into the west wing? Did fucking _Niall_ let you come?”

“N-no, Harry, he… I–” Louis twists at his fingers, shaking his head. He moves to get out of the way, perhaps to run off, but Harry blocks him, bends his head intimidatingly low so that his hair falls in his face. He is _bad_ at this time, unappealing, and part of him hates that Louis’ got to see him like this, when he can’t help but to scare. “They, well, they told me not to come, I guess.” Louis swallows. “They were taking me around and- and I wanted to see what was up here, but they told me not to. But I…I snuck off because I was really c-curious. I didn’t mean to–”

“Why don’t you ever _listen_? Why are you so _stupid_?” Harry is completely livid. His words noticeably bite and sting, for Louis flinches and backs away to the best of his ability without throwing the glass rose casing off balance again. At the next attempt he makes at slipping past Harry, Harry grabs his wrist, all of his fingers fitting effortlessly around the little thing and squeezing. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you thick or something?”

“Absolutely not, I am just _fine_ ,” Louis stammers. His eyes are glistening now – he is upset, quickly blinking away whatever threatens to spill out. He wrenches at his wrist, but Harry’s got a fast hold on him. Harry jerks his own hand up, drawing Louis in closer and causing him to stumble into his chest with a squeal. His hair smells of lavender and his breath of ginger as he says, “I’m sorry, I’m telling you, I’m _sorry_. I didn’t mean to disturb you, I promise! Please let me go.”

Harry glares hard at Louis before releasing his wrist, stepping aside to pick up the felted cloth that had been over the glass casing. “Get the hell out,” he says, and Louis doesn’t hesitate in the slightest, running off without a word. The bedroom door remains open in his absence.

Harry has the beginnings of a headache as he places the small blanket over the rose, and he pretends not to notice how another petal has fallen off. Harry is running out of time, and that reminder brings forth what is definitely a headache. He’s stalling and it is almost out of his control; the tugging at his heartstrings is insistent but confused.

Once the room is once more in total darkness, Harry feels as if he can relax, and he moves to close the door, rubbing the heel of his hand over one eye. He doesn’t think he cares whether or not he dreams tonight, not anymore, because he is exhausted, and even a broken bed seems a little appealing at this point.

By the time he’s seated on the edge of the mattress, however, and wriggling out of his pants, the door is pushed open again. Louise’s shrill voice is piercing and stress-inducing as she hobbles hastily towards Harry.

“What in God’s name did you do to that boy?” she hisses, and there is no questioning the fact that she is talking about Louis. There has never been another boy to talk about. She looks more concerned than she does angry, and that confuses Harry, has him pausing from where he had been tugging his pants legs off of his ankles. He begins to express his misunderstanding in a mumble, but Louise speaks again, loudly, “he’s _gone_ , Harry! He grabbed his shoes and he left- and he was crying! We tried to talk to him, but he was crying so hard that I don’t think he heard us! What did you do that made him leave? I swear, if you hurt that poor boy…”

“What do you mean he _left_?” Harry blurts, and his gaze immediately falls towards the sheathed window, staring at it like he can see past it and out into the dark, freezing weather outside. He is on his feet in an instant, pulling his pants back up and fastening the belt. A thousand thoughts run through his head as he starts towards the door – how Louis is going to freeze awfully quickly, if he is going to make it home before Harry can get him back, how upset Harry must have made the poor boy. All the while, Louise follows him, persistent and scolding, threatening him of what will happen if Louis finds harm.

Harry _knows_ , though, and God, is he worried. He doesn’t say this, though, so he settles for tying his mangy hair back out of his face and shoving his feet into boots, stomping out of the house for the first time in months. The heavy door closes before Louise can angrily yell at him some more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow my [Tumblr](http://elysianrain.tumblr.com/)


	7. VI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go :) Sorry that this update is late; the past two weeks have been very busy. However, next week is the last week before winter break, therefore I will be around a lot to write! To those who have midterms/finals next week, I wish you the best of luck! Again, I'd love to see what you all have to say! Enjoy! x.

                Every step Louis takes causes another thick tear to slip down his freezing cheeks, and the further away he thinks he’s distancing himself from the castle, the more upset he seems to get. He isn’t even completely sure why he is crying, but he does know that he is freezing and that his shoes cannot ward off the snow any longer from his chilly feet.

The weather is worse than it had looked from out the window; tree branches swing in front of his face and piles of snow fall onto him from them. It is snowing sideways, the wind is so strong, and Louis is so miserable – miserable and tired and scared – but he’s got to get home. He hasn’t a clue how to get there, has no idea which direction he is going in, but he tries not to think about that, knowing it will only worry him further.

Louis stumbles over a molded log and he falls, digging his palms into the hard snow beneath him to keep himself from face-planting. He quickly rises to his feet, brushing the wet snow off of him in an attempt to keep himself from freezing even further. His face burns in frustration, replacing that of embarrassment from earlier.

Louis has never been called thick or stupid in his life before Harry’s attacking words, not even by Zayn, who always manages to insult him whether he means to or not. Louis is shocked by it, rendered of any words, and even now he sobs a little at the thought of it, knowing that the words aren’t true but wondering why they were said in the first place. He is aware that he had been told not to trespass and had anyway, but the last thing he’d expected was to find Harry creepily alone in his mess of a bedroom.

Snow drenches Louis’ shoes at the next step he takes, and he stumbles to the side and leans against a damp tree on the outskirts of a small clearing, batting dead leaves and ice off of his clothes as he takes a rest. He hadn’t slipped on a jacket earlier, hadn’t thought about it as he had left the mansion, but he’d managed to tie a scarf around his neck and stuff his feet into his shoes, both of which now provide him with nothing.

He wipes his eyes with the end of his scarf and waits, hoping for the snow storm to simmer down. He doesn’t realize how tired he really is until he slumps back against the tree, tilting his head back against it. Louise had seen his exit, and he wonders if anyone from the mansion are looking for him now. He hopes it isn’t Harry, but knows that the small household objects would get nowhere in this storm.

Minutes pass, and after nearly a half hour, Louis is cowered against the tree, his legs pulled up to his chest with his forehead pressed into his knees. Everything is completely numb, and he is shivering, and while part of him warns him that he’s going to freeze to death if he doesn’t get moving, another part is insistent that he is _okay_ , that he’s only waiting for the snow to let up, that he’ll make his way home just _fine_. That is what he decides to think about; his mother will be so happy when he returns home, and his sisters will join him in a swaddle of blankets, providing him with tea and cookies and grateful kisses. He will be just fine.

Louis hums and almost smiles, almost, pushing his hair back out of his face, which is now messy and wet. When he lifts his head, the light of two lanterns catch his eye and the voices of laughing men cause him to scramble up, smoothing out his soaked clothes. “Hello?” he says, voice raw and shaky. The people have got to be from Louis’ town, because there isn’t another village around for miles. He rubs his hands together as he steps away from the tree, squinting his eyes at the dark silhouettes that don’t quite look like humans yet.

“You hear that, mate?” one man says, and the banter and laughter of the group silences as they step further into Louis’ view, lanterns raised high. Louis can tell that there are three males, all of which he recognize from Zayn’s posse of admirers, but he can’t bring himself to remember their names.

Like most of the men in Louis’ village, they are larger, broader, stronger. They have deeper voices that have always intimidated Louis just a little, but now, he is focused on nothing other than getting home before Harry realizes his absence. Tripping forward, he’s got a relieved smile, crossing his arms close to his chest to keep him warm.

“Is that Louis?” One guy’s accent causes Louis’ name to come out slurred and odd, and Louis nods enthusiastically and stands in front of the men, clenching his jaw to keep his teeth from audibly chattering. “Holy shit, Percy, it is!”

“Hi, um, yeah, it’s me,” Louis breathes, nodding, still nodding – ignoring the swearing. He hasn’t ever had a full conversation with these men, nor with any kids his age, but he is fully aware of their slurs. “Do you think you could take me home?” he says to no one in particular, for he really doesn’t care who leads the way – as long as he gets there. He eyes their clothes and finds that they’re so bundled up, so warm. Louis longs for the same thing. “I’ve been out here for a long time, and I’m absolutely _freezing_ –”

“He’s the one who’s gone missing, yeah?” another man asks in interruption, and he’s rather scruffy, with a thick, itchy-looking beard. He reaches up to scratch it while he passes his lantern to his friend with his other hand, who is a redhead with a gap-toothed grin and hauntingly dark eyes. “Yeah, he’s got to be. ‘S entire family’ve been buggin’ the whole town about it ever since that one girl came back.”

Louis wrinkles his nose at that and shuffles his feet anxiously, eyes wide. He is not sure how he feels about the village knowing that he’s gone. He wishes there weren’t quite a stir, because he hates attention, would much rather stay back, hidden behind his books. However, he is beyond relieved at the fact that Charlotte _is_ home safe. “I-I’m okay, really,” he whispers, flicking his hair out of his eyes. “I’m just trying to get home. I’ve been at this castle for _ages_ , and it’s been the worst thing–”

“The same mansion with that monster thing, I’ll bet, hm?” the redhead says, and he laughs loudly, repositioning his lantern around his wrist. “Yeah, your sisters keep going on about it. They’ve got my little brother whining about it, too. Even your mum believes it, that crazy lady. I swear, someone should do something about all that imagination shit they’re all into. It’s pissing everyone off. ‘S like they expect us to believe it.”

“Zayn’s been making a fuss about you, you know,” the final man says before Louis has a chance to get in his own input, and he’s got a smirk that makes Louis all the more uncomfortable. “I see why he’s so enamored by you; a pretty little thing, you are. You’re causing the whole to be concerned. That’s just what you want, innit?”

Louis swallows thickly, positive that, if he weren’t so cold, he’d be burning with a blush. “N-no, I’m…I’m just trying to get home, I swear,” he whimpers, shrinking back. They follow, to Louis’ terror, and the one with the shaggy beard reaches out to touch his face, his hands calloused and rough against his temple and cheekbone. “If you could show me the way home, that’d be great,” Louis tries to continue, his voice growing tiny and scared. “I won’t bother you any longer, I promise.”

“Oh, who says you’re bothering?” The man with the smirk says, and he’s still smiling, looking smug like he knows how fretful Louis is. “You know, I’m finding it awfully unfair that Zayn refuses to share you with anyone. Although everyone’s saying that you’ve got a thing going on at that old-ass bookshop that definitely would _not_ be seen as appropriate. People’re sayin’ you’re giving the older men a good shag, right there on the floor. Even the ones who’re straight want to shag you. Said you’re such a good little fuck – believe Zayn told us that, right boys? Said you’re so _loud_ –”

“No, that’s not right, I promise; I have no idea why he said that,” Louis says hastily, ducking his head and pinching his eyes closed. The further he backs up, the closer they get, and they are just like Zayn: stubborn and determined. “I’ve never done that in my life, I tell you. Zayn’s a liar.”

“How disrespectful, little Louis; that’s so unlike you,” the redhead teases, and then the one with the beard grabs both sides of Louis’ face, pushing his cheeks inward. Louis squeaks and slaps at the guy’s hands, but he only laughs and pinches tighter. Louis’ eyes water with embarrassment, and he wipes them away with his own shaking fingers, looking around helplessly. The snow has finally let up, falling in a more peaceful manner and making it easier for him to see. He looks towards the perimeter of the clearing and his eyes immediately fall upon the dark shadow leaning against a tree, eyes bright, waiting.

Louis’ heart leaps up into his throat, in both surprise and relief, eyes growing wide once more. He looks back at the man holding his face, then towards his two companions. He is unsure how long the shadow against the tree has been watching, but he knows that the way the men are advancing towards him is a warning, how their grabby hands are a beacon for help. With another glance to the side, he struggles to lick his lips, shifting violently to the side as a heavy hand settles on his waist.

“Help, please,” he screeches, voice cracking all over, and he closes his eyes, hoping that his call is enough of a surrender.

                                                                                                //

                Harry is fully aware of Louis’ reluctance to be seen as a damsel in distress, can see it in his blue-grey eyes that he is scared of admitting that he is in trouble, but the moment he opens his mouth, thin lips bitten red, Harry is already ready, hardly needing to hear his shrill cry before he snaps.

“Get away from him,” he says as he leaves the shadows with quick feet, and he has no control over the words that leave his mouth, nor the actions that run his body, as he rips past two boys to get to the one who’s got Louis. He hovers over him, a vast half-foot taller, everything moving in slow motion as the man turns around. His hands release Louis, who takes the open opportunity to dash back into the woods, clumsily tripping over himself and submerging himself between the eerie trees.

“Who the hell are you?” The redheaded one says breathlessly, and Harry balls his fists once he tears his eyes away from where Louis disappeared off to, his anger turning everything the same shade of red as the man’s awful hair. Even the snow, which was even beautiful while he was cutting through the woods for any signs of Louis, reminds him of rusted, crusty blood.

“It doesn’t matter who I am; get the hell out of here,” Harry growls, throwing his head back into whatever direction. He doesn’t care where they go, as long as they are away from Louis, discontinuing the conversation that had Harry’s stomach churning in disgust. “There’s no need to fuck with Louis. He was just trying to get home.”

Harry steadies his gaze on all three men for equal amounts of time, analyzing them, but his peripheral vision stays put on Louis’ little nook of safety. Before he knows it, though, he’s being hit in the back of the head with a weighty fist, and, turning around wildly, Harry strikes back dizzily, pushing a short man with messy hair down with as much force as he can muster with his numb-with-cold limbs. The man falls to the ground with a painful-sounding thud, and the other two men advance, the handsome one drawing something from the waistband of his pants.

Harry can tell it’s a knife as soon as it reflects off of the bright moon, and he cocks his head to the side, smirking, challenging. The very second-to-last thing he wants is to get hurt, Louis’ immediate safety being the first. The back of his head throbs, and he is mindful of the messy-haired man rising slowly to his feet behind him, but he shakes out his hands and alternates his gaze from the small knife to the dark eyes of the man possessing it.

“You’re going to cut me,” he observes slowly, nodding his head down at the small switchblade. His words leave his mouth in a rough, forced tone, because he is biting his tongue to keep from killing every last one of these men. What he had heard them saying about Louis occupies nearly every corner of his mind. “Are you really that afraid of me? Why? Is it how I look? I’m not that unsightly, am I?”

“Stop fucking with us – who…who are you?” the redhead demands, and his voice wavers, suggesting that Harry is getting to him. “Why do you look like that? Where are you from?” Harry flashes a tight, mocking smile at him, shrugging. Footsteps tell Harry that the messy-haired villager has regained his posture, and he turns around to hit him once more. A searing pain in his opposite forearm follows the punch immediately, and he cries out angrily, knees buckling underneath him as his hand sloppily detaches from the jaw of the man he’d hit.

“Fuck!” he yells, curling his arm against his side as he rotates once again, baring his teeth at the man with the knife. He holds it out in front of himself like he cannot believe what he had done, dark eyes wide with awe as Harry’s blood flows across the blade. “Get the fuck out of here or I’ll kill you!” he shouts, stomping towards the man, who stays motionless, shocked, surprised at his own ability to have stabbed a man.

“Percy, fucking _move_ ,” the shaggy-haired one groans, and Percy looks to him with alert eyes before dashing off into the woods, dropping the knife in the snow. The redhead crawls away as well, leaving Harry and the final man alone.

“I _will_ kill you if you come back here again,” Harry whispers, clasping his hand over his arm, and he winces when he draws it away to find blood seeping through the many jackets he’d thrown on. “Get out – go.”

“Shit,” the villager curses, and he takes a few steps back before turning around and running off in the general direction of his companions. Harry roars again once they’re gone, frustrated and in pain, his head throbbing. His shout shakes the trees and rattles the stars, scrambling them even more.

“Louis?” Harry calls once his breath is regained and his vision is steady, stumbling toward the spot he remembers Louis having hidden, and he waits, panic momentarily rising in his chest at the thought of Louis having sought out his own way home once more. “ _Louis_ ,” he repeats, squeezing his arm to the point of more pain, “where are you? Come on out, they’re gone. You’re safe now.”

Harry waits. He waits too long for his liking, freezing and bleeding and throbbing, but eventually Louis ventures out of the woods, his head down and his arms wrapped tightly around his middle. His every step trembles and shakes, and Harry immediately removes one of his jackets to drape over Louis’ shoulders, making a face at the blood that stains the left arm. He’s never done this before, has never shown his concern or general care, so he is reluctant – awkward – as he fastens the jacket around Louis’ body.

Louis notices the blood, and he tilts his head up to gape at Harry, his eyes moist and dull. “You’re hurt,” he whispers, drawing Harry’s jacket around his body more securely. They share of moment of quietness as snow falls slowly around them. Harry cannot get his eyes to leave Louis’, nor does he ever want to. Louis speaks again, gaze falling to his shoes, which are disgustingly soaked, “I suppose we should go back…back…,” he doesn’t finish, his voice even quieter, looking ashamed.

“That’d be nice, yeah,” Harry mutters, and he nudges Louis around and into the woods again, leading him back to the mansion. Everything is silent on the walk back and he prefers it this way; the only sounds that are made are when Louis stumbles and makes a surprised little sound, light and shaky and nervous.

“Careful, Louis, it’s slippery,” Harry warns, and Louis surprises him by hesitantly outstretching his hand, silently asking for assistance. Harry is quick to grant it, holding his hand delicately and helping him over a frosted, dead log, as well as every other thing Louis finds hard to cross. Louis mumbles a shy thanks after the first handful of obstacles and glances at Harry again, licking his lips. The atmosphere is tense, and Louis is clearly still apprehensive.

 “I can help with your arm,” he offers after a moment, and Harry gives him a weak smile, nodding his head. His eyes fall upon the mansion, having arrived much sooner than he thought and he quickly ushers Louis inside, knowing that the boy is positively freezing and that he is more than likely to catch a cold. He makes sure the door is locked tightly before breathing out a heavy sigh. As he discards the scarves and gloves and jackets that are on him and drenched with melted snow, Louis stands awkwardly in front of the closed door, his shoes making odd little squelching sounds as he wriggles his toes within them.

“Warm up, yes?” Harry advises with a raised eyebrow, and Louis quickly nods, slipping out of his shoes and kicking them against the wall. He takes off his scarf and folds it up before biting his lip. He looks around before mentally choosing to go into the living room, where the fireplace is still active with brilliant flames, and Harry watches him sit down in front of the fireplace, beckoning him over with a wave of one of his hands and setting his scarf by the fire with the other.

“Come sit so you can warm up, too,” he says softly, and he has such a lovely voice, laced with sleepiness. Harry wants to take him to bed in the most innocent fashion possible, bundling him up and waiting with him until he falls asleep. “Let me look at your arm.”

Harry hums and enters the living room, sitting himself down on the hardwood floor directly across from Louis. He outstretches his left arm, tugging up the shirtsleeve. It isn’t much other than a flesh wound running from his wrist to the middle of his forearm, nothing that will require stitching, and Louis tells him this, giving him a soft smile as he brushes delicate fingers alongside the cut.

“I’ll run into the kitchen and find something to clean it up,” he tells him, and he rises to his feet, a tiny puddle of water left over from where he had been sitting. His footsteps quietly fade out as he leaves the room. Harry bites his lip through a chuckle and gazes into the fire, sticking the hand of his uninjured arm out and curling his fingers around the heat that the fire brings.

When Louis returns minutes later, he is holding a bowl of water and a rag, bandages draped over his shoulder. He settles back down in front of Harry like a proper princess, tucking his nightshirt underneath his bottom and setting his supplies out in front of him.

“Hey, Louis?” Harry asks as he gives Louis is arm once more, and Louis hums in acknowledgement, taking his wrist in his hand. Harry keeps his eyes on the blood tracking his arm, brows furrowed. His question leaves his mouth before he has a chance to think about what it may trigger within Louis. “Who is _Zayn_?”

“He’s just a man I know,” Louis answers wistfully, and Harry sees him shrugging out of the corner of his eye. The way he bites his lip causes Harry’s curiosity to flare, and he leans forward a bit, careful not to disturb Louis’ work steady work.

“Is he your lover?” he asks uncertainly,  worried that Louis does in fact have a man back home, and every intention for Louis to become Harry’s own will have to be thrown out the window. He is unsure why he hadn’t thought about this earlier; perhaps the intensity of his initial feelings made it hard for him to realize that Louis is gorgeous enough to have every man in every town in France falling for him.

“Absolutely not, Harry.” Louis shakes his head, his hand tightening around his wrist. A scowl flashes across his pretty face but pans out into a neutral expression before Harry can admire the delightful crease that forms between his brows. “Zayn is a hunter in my village. He really fancies me, I guess, but I- I don’t feel the same way. I don’t know what those guys were talking about back there. I don’t do any of those things with older men. I’m not some tramp. I’ve never even… I’ve never, like–”

“Had sex,” Harry finishes with raised eyebrows, tilting his head slightly. Louis hums again and nods, dabbing Harry’s cut with a now damp rag with a pressure that insists he’s annoyed. Harry winces, pursing his lips and pressing on. “But…you do fancy men, right?”

“You can say that, yes. I don’t think any of the men at my villagers like me much, though, and I don’t really like them, either, so I guess I haven’t found anyone who’s really, you know, the one. ” Louis nods his head once more and wraps up Harry’s wound, his movements neat and precise. Harry can’t tell if the rosiness of his cheeks is a blush or the fact that he’s warming up – maybe both. Perhaps he is warming up to the heat and Harry, too. “Can I see your head?” he asks timidly, his words taking a sharp turn into a different topic. “Is it okay?”

“It’s alright. I think I’ve got a bit of a headache, though.” Harry smiles and touches his arm, rubbing his fingertips over the rough bandage. Just for a moment, he ponders exactly why anyone would dislike such a pleasant little human. “Thank you for fixing my arm. I hope you’re okay, too. If those guys seriously hurt you, I’ll go back and kill them, I swear. Just- just tell me.”

“I’m alright, Harry,” Louis says with a hint of a giggle, folding up the bloody washrag. He sets it beside the bowl and places his hands in his lap, rubbing them together. “You don’t have to kill anybody. I really appreciate you getting them away from me, though. I don’t think I would’ve been able to get them to leave me alone. They don’t always listen to me.” Louis looks awfully apologetic saying this, his eyes suggesting that it is his own fault that he can’t get them to listen. Harry wishes there was something he could do about it, on top of his desire to hold him close.

“You’re welcome,” he whispers. He picks at his fingernails, constantly pushing his hair back out of his face. He hasn’t ever felt this self-conscious, and having Louis near makes him all the more annoyed that he looks like this, that he’s a beast. “I’m glad you’re safe,” he says, his words murmuring even though they’re truer than anything he’s ever said in the past. “Those woods are dangerous if you don’t know how to get through them. The storm is pretty wild, too.”

“You aren’t mad at me for leaving?” Louis questions on a whim, and Harry simply gives him conflicted face, his mouth crooking to the side. He isn’t mad, and he has no explanation as to why other than the fact that he is happier than anything over the fact that Louis is okay and speaking openly to him. This is the longest conversation they’d had within the two days of his presence, and Harry is thoroughly pleased, anxious to inform Niall and Liam of his progression.

“No, I’m not mad. It felt a little shitty, though.” Harry blinks at Louis, carding his fingers through his greasy hair. He glances into the fire again, completely warm at this point, fuzzy with Louis’ close proximity. “I thought- well, I _do_ remember telling you not to leave the castle, and having you leave was a little rude.”

“ _Excusez-moi?_ ” Louis hisses, back arching as he sits up straighter, his entire form radiating incredulousness. His face pinches up in distaste, voice raising how it does when he defends himself. “You said all those rude things to me, like…like calling me stupid and thick. That was mean. That made me feel bad. All I did was–”

“–go into the west wing when I told you previously _not to_ ,” Harry finishes slowly, tone challenging and eyes narrowed. “And then you went through my things.” Louis finally flushes, shrinking back just a tad into a slouch, and he jerks his head to the side, redirecting his gaze.

“You’re right, and I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have done it, but you shouldn’t have called me all those mean things. That hurt my feelings. I know I’m not stupid and I am not thick, either. _I’m just fine_ , _Harry_.”

Harry’s eyes widen at the crack that breaks up his name at the end of Louis’ sentence, and an unbelievable wave of guilt floods his heart. “Fuck, no, Louis, you’re just fine, I know. I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have said those things about you. They aren’t true.” Harry leans in, licking his lips. Louis’ hands are in his own lap, antsy and so easy for him to grab, but he doesn’t, clenching his fists instead. “Neither is what those assholes were saying back in the woods. You look too lovely to be some tramp who fucks people on dirty bookshop floors. They were speaking shit about everything but the fact that you’re pretty. I agree with that part. You’re stunning.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Louis murmurs after a few speechless moments, and his head cocks to the side, the blush never leaving his cheeks but instead growing brighter. Harry doesn’t need to hear Louis accept his apology because he sees it in his face, how the corners of his eyes crunch up like a flower that has yet to bloom. “I think you’re handsome, too. I- you- your eyes. I really like your eyes. They’re such a romantic green.”

Harry knows that this is as good as it’s going to get, that Louis can’t possibly find anything else appealing with his grotesque look, but he still smiles brightly, sitting back. If he were dumb, he’d think that Louis’ got an intention to come off as flirty, but he has an itching feeling that this is _him_ , that he is just full of lovely things to say. Harry simply stares for a moment as Louis looks elsewhere; he sees the droop to his smile, the slow blink of his eyes. His downy hair floats in front of his eyes in thick chunks, drying at its leisure. “Let me walk you to your room,” he offers, hastily scrambling to his feet. He holds out a hand, dying for Louis’ touch once more, craving whatever addicting feeling it brings.

“Okay,” Louis whispers, and he takes Harry’s single hand with both of his own – there they are, the sparks that leave his skin buzzing. Harry steps back and pulls Louis to his feet, and the smaller man tugs his fluffy hair out of his eyes before crossing his arms over his chest. “Um, what about the- the washrag and bowl?” he asks curiously, glancing over his shoulder at the materials lying on the floor. “I should get them…yeah?”

“It’s okay. One of the servants will collect it all, I’m sure,” Harry insists, and he holds his arm out as a gesture for Louis to take the lead. He obeys with a shuffle of his bare feet, and Harry begins to follow, only two steps behind. He notices the way Louis’ nightshirt clings to his back, still damp, and he has a hard time keeping his eyes on acceptable places, often finding them on the exposed skin of his lower thighs and the cleft of his bottom, which is especially noticeable due to the thin material pressing to it. His eyes are quick to divert when Louis gradually slows and then makes an abrupt stop to spin around, looking sheepish.

“I don’t quite know where to go anymore,” he explains cautiously. He juts a thumb behind him while two rows of straight teeth trap a thin, strawberry red lip between them. “I know the left turn after the foyer, but, eh… everything else is a bit confusing, sorry.”

Harry smiles and nods, stepping in front of Louis in order to guide him to his bedroom. Louis follows closely, much to his pleasure, but stays silent until the last turn is taken and his bedroom is approached. It looks just like every other door in the mansion, but it’s still different because Harry is positive that there isn’t a more lively room than it. Not a soul as pretty as Louis has laid out delicately on the bed, has sleepily stumbled across the vast space of the bedroom. Louis speaks up, his voice tinny and light.

 “Thank you,” he says with a sigh, standing in front of the closed door. His hand snakes back to turn the knob, and it creaks open silently, slowly, letting a wave of darkness leak out. “Um, yeah. Thank you for earlier, too. I really, really appreciate it.” With a smug look, chin held high, he adds, “I think that they won’t be back, those boys, don’t you?”

“I’m fairly certain that they won’t be back,” Harry confirms. “They’d be smart not to.” He smirks, rocking back and forth on his feet playfully. “You’re very welcome, too, Louis. And I suppose that this means you’ll be good from now on? Good for _me_?”

Louis cocks his hip out so alluringly and rolls his eyes, forcing out a scoff. His lips quirk out in a smile of some form of disbelief, and he looks down, pushing his door open wider. “If anything, Harry, I’ll be good for my mum and sisters back home. Goodnight, though.”

It’s a good enough answer, Harry thinks – he will take it. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks hopefully. After such the accomplishment of being able to hold a stable conversation, Harry doesn’t want to waste any more time apart from Louis. Louis looks around for a moment before nodding with a faint smile, and Harry grins, his face stretching wide. “Alright, Lou. Goodnight. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight,” Louis repeats with a giggle before slipping like paper into his room. The door closes, the light flicks on, and Harry can’t bring himself to leave until he hears his lovely hum again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [Tumblr](http://elysianrain.tumblr.com/) :)


	8. VII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where things are seriously starting to unfold, and I hope you're as excited as I am! Let this be an early holiday present, yes? :) I allowed this chapter to be pretty long, and the ones that follow will be the same way, I think. I'm starting to lean more towards Harry's point of view for these chapters, but there will continue to be lots of Louis! Enjoy, and tell me what you think! Much love xx.

                The words ring in Louis’ head as he makes his bed, his body sprawled out across his mattress as he stretches the cream sheets and thick comforter as tight as they will allow. They float around annoyingly close to his head, constantly travelling from ear to ear, circling his brain. Louise’ tone still frames the words, and that’s a nice thing, but he is still a little nervous as he makes his way over to his wardrobe, tugging off his pinstriped nightgown and kicking it off to the side.

“Why, you’re up awfully early, Louis,” Victoria observes with surprise of some sort laced in her bouncy tone. Her brown eyes are wide and comical, and Louis is still unsure how all of these things are able to come to life, but he remains entertained nonetheless. “How are you feeling? Have you gotten enough rest? You didn’t come to bed until quite early in the morning, you know. Oh, maybe it was late at night, almost midnight. I don’t quite remember.”

Louis laughs. “Yes, Victoria,” he smiles as he stifles a yawn, rummaging through the few sets of clothes that are in his wardrobe. They are mainly basic; long johns and thick pants and cotton shirts, but one weighty, forest green sweater catches his eye, and he immediately pulls it out, bringing it over his head. Once it’s situated comfortably around him, he searches for a pair of pants, humming out, “I’ve gotten enough sleep, yeah. Mama Lou would not have wanted me sleeping in so late again, plus I’ve got to attend lunch, so that’s why I’m up.” Another smile of his is directed at the bulky wardrobe as he pulls on his pants, tying them up so they stay on his hips.

“You’ve got lunch?” Victoria inquires, and once more, Louise’ words wrap tightly around Louis’ head, a constant bittersweet reminder. “With?”

“With Harry, of course. Who else?” Louis giggles reluctantly, and a thin blush coats his cheeks as he turns to stare out the window, ruffling up his messy hair. “I was coming out of the bathroom this morning from cleaning my teeth, and I ran into Mama Lou in the hallway. ‘Harry has invited you to lunch’, is what she said, and I said, ‘are you simply sugarcoating it, Mama Lou? Did he demand me to come or is he being genuine? Because I’ll only come if he is being polite!’ and she said, ‘why, my dear, he was most polite about it.’ So I agreed, of course. I’m to go to the dining room at half-past noon.”

“That’s so exciting, Louis!” Victoria chirps, and Louis chuckles nervously, ducking his head. The next few phrases come out in a quite murmur to herself, and she animatedly goes on about how it is about time, about how it will be such a dreamy setting. Louis listens, providing a snort every so often at the wardrobe’s silliness. “You ought to get going, then, hm? Half-noon is in only ten minutes.”

“Alright, yeah, you’re right,” Louis breathes, smoothing his hands over his sweater. Butterflies churn in his stomach, burning unfamiliarly good. He does a small turn in front of Victoria, biting the inside of his cheek as he elongates his arms. “I look nice, yes? Not too, eh…?”

“You look like a true prince,” Victoria compliments, sincerity so apparent in her voice, and Louis grins, thanking her softly with a blush plastered onto his cheeks. “Don’t forget socks! Socks are in the bottom drawer.”

“Thanks,” Louis repeats quickly, and he ducks down to retrieve a pair of socks from the drawer closest to the floor, pulling them onto his feet. He wiggles his toes comfortably within them. “I’ll see you later, then, I suppose,” he says with half a smile, standing up straight, and with a pathetic little wave, he reluctantly leaves, his bedroom door remaining open.

The walk to the dining room is a slow one. He takes the time to admire the way the light filters in through the huge windows on both sides of the walls, and the snow makes everything even brighter, causing Louis’ heartstrings to tug at the fact that his sisters are likely playing out in it, gigging with the other kids of the village. His fingers brush over the faceless portraits and abstract settings as he looks to them. A couple ballroom dances in one of them, colors all faded and melded together. It’s so intimate, and Louis pauses to look at it more intently, wondering if the female is a princess, if the male is a noble night determined to take her heart. Her deep purple dress is frozen in mid-twirl as she is held firmly by the waist, yet the man’s hold is so incredibly gentle. Her face is unseen, but the expression of the man suggests utter desire that’s shared in every way.

Louis does not have to look at the other paintings to decide that this is his favorite one. With a smile, he takes a quick look around so he can remember where the painting is located before anxiously straightening out his clothes once more and starting towards the dining room.

He clings to the empty doorframe that leads into the dining room when he gets there, looking around for Harry. The room is bright and alive, and Louis quickly grows a sense of admiration towards the wide windows. He spots Harry sitting on the side of the table furthest away from him, and he can’t even really _see_ him, for dozens of dark red poinsettia flowers serve as a centerpiece, leaves frosted with faux snow.

“She said he’s coming, yeah?” Harry questions deeply, nervously, and Louis smiles subconsciously, slouching a little against the doorframe and letting it support most of his weight. “Do you think she remembered to tell him what time I invited him? She did tell him twelve-thirty, right?”

“Yes, Harry, I’m sure.” It doesn’t take Louis very long to realize that Niall is speaking now, his accent so Irish. “Louise doesn’t mess up. I’m sure Louis will be here any minute.”

Harry makes an impatient little noise, and, deciding that he doesn’t want to worry him, Louis steps forward, clearing his throat. “Um, good afternoon?” he says timidly, standing at the end of the table that must be his. Like last night’s dinner setup, several plates are in his spot, as well as silverware that Louis hopes is alive. The same placing is at every empty spot on the table, although the only chairs present are the ones at both heads. Louis begins to think that Harry does not have many visitors. “Do I sit here?” he asks, hand settling on the armrest of his chair. “It’s awfully far away from- from you guys, isn’t it?”

“Louis!” Niall exclaims, and he bolts down the table, his grin as bright as his flames. Louis reciprocates the beam, bowing his head in a shy little greeting. “Hello! You’ve made it! Yes, mate, come up, sit closer!”

Louis nods his head down at his feet and giggles. “Alright,” he agrees, and he stiffly walks over towards Harry’s end of the table. To his amusement, the chair follows, and after a few steps, it catches him under the bottom and pushes him into the table, coming to a stop only a couple feet from Harry himself.

“Good afternoon, Louis,” Harry says as Louis unfolds his napkin and sets it into his lap, and when he looks up to smile and repeat the greeting again, it doesn’t show, surprise wiping his face clear of any other emotion. His hands falter with his napkin, and eventually he lets it go to tug very anxiously at his fingers.

Harry is _different_ , Louis notices, for it is obvious. His hair is a stack of neat curls as opposed to the messy, wild mop it has been every other time they’d had an encounter. His face is wiped of any blemishes other than the two dimples that crater a little above the corners of his lips, which are endearing, and even his teeth, which had been terrifyingly sharp before, are white and clean - human. His hands, which are folded atop the table, are smooth and pretty-pale. As far as Louis knows, he only things that remain the same are his eyes, which are so beautifully green. The cream sweater he has on hugs him. He is breathtakingly handsome, and Louis bites his lip, ears burning at the realization.

“Hi, Harry,” he hums, and he scoots himself into the table a little more, pushing his fingers through his hair. He feels a little self-conscious now, wanting to look nice, because although he is feeling it, he wonders if Victoria’s compliment will match _Harry’s_ thoughts. “How are you? How is your arm?”

“I’m well, and so is my arm, yeah,” Harry says, and his voice is so wonderfully deep now, soothing rather than forced and rough. Louis is evidently melting; his fingers and toes have got pins and needles that he attempts to discreetly shake out. Meanwhile, Harry shifts in his seat, eyebrows raised. He reaches towards his glass and lifts it slightly, shifting the orange juice within it. “Eh…Louise, she- she suggested juice to drink. Since you were in the storm last night for quite a while, in case you fall ill, she says that this will help, like…prevent it.”

“That’s what my mum says, too,” Louis says softly, casually. He lifts his own glass and takes a tentative sip of the cold juice, and Harry watches, his gaze soft and attentive. “She’s a doctor,” he mumbles with his lips pulled only centimeters away from the rim of his glass. “She says that the vitamins in orange juice are–”

“Ah, my favorite boys,” Niall suddenly proclaims like it’s the most memorable announcement in the world, effectively interrupting Louis as he skids to a stop between the two men. Louis smiles sheepishly at Harry and lowers his head, shaking it incredulously. Niall completely avoids it, waving his arms about. “Salads for lunch today, my friends,” he explains, rubbing his hands together. “Liam and I came to an agreement on it. Of course, this is entirely feasible to alter, if it doesn’t suit you your tastes.”

“A salad is fine with me,” Louis says slowly, looking up, and he glances at Harry for an answer, who is smiling, eyes glazed over in an absentminded gaze. “With um- no onions, please, if you were planning on putting those in there,” he adds, his stare steadily fixing back onto the candlestick. “I don’t fancy onions.”

“Absolutely,” Niall barks, and he cackles excitedly before providing Louis with a little bow. He then takes off to the kitchen, tripping over himself and nearly extinguishing the flame atop his head twice. “Give me ten minutes!” he calls before he disappears behind the door. “Make conversation! Get to know one another!”

“He’s wild,” Harry murmurs as soon as the room is cleared of anyone but the two of them, and Louis giggles, rubbing his knees. Harry reciprocates the laugh with his own crooked smile. “I’ve known him for a while, Niall,” he explains, “since we were little boys. He’s pretty great.”

“He’s adorable, I think,” Louis says, licking his lips. He looks up through his eyelashes and finds Harry with his head crooked in what might be concern, like he is questioning the meaning of his statement. Louis quickly backs himself up, smiling ruefully. “For a candlestick, is what I mean. I suppose. I can’t quite find a little candle attractive, now can I? He hasn’t always been one, has he?”

“Niall, no.” Harry shakes his head. A blush forms in his cheeks, quickly rising to his ears. “He had brown hair, and was a little on the short side. Still is, I suppose, but he’s just a candlestick now. There was a bit of an accident; that’s why everyone is furniture now. Louise and Liam, too, you know, and everyone else.”

Louis nods, eyebrows furrowed. His own curiosity has him leaning forward, nearly placing his elbows on the table before remembering how impolite the motion is. “What was the accident? Will they be furniture forever? Why aren’t _you_ a spoon or a clock?”

“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” Harry says stiffly, jaw locked. His eyes flash with warning, and Louis picks up on it immediately; he hums and leans back, shaking his head in embarrassment.

“You’re right, yeah. Sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize.” Harry sighs out, and a chuckle is pinned onto the end of it. His hand reaches out and his fingers tap the table in front of Louis’ face, little thumping noises vibrating the wood as he acknowledges him. “It’s okay. None of it’s important, anyway. It’s in the past. Tell me something about you. Tell me about Zayn. I think I’d like to hear about him some more.”

“Zayn? Again?” Louis wrinkles his nose up, and when Harry nods his head seriously, he shrugs, placing his hands on the table and lacing his fingers together. “Um, well…he’s a hunter, I told you that. He’s good at hunting, too, from what he’s told me. He provides a lot of the big game for our village. It’s a tiny village, with only two-hundred people or so. He’s got this really nice, dark hair, and dark eyes, and he’s quite taller than I am, but…shorter than you. By quite a few inches.”

“Shorter than me? Really?” Harry asks, eyebrows raised, and Louis nods earnestly, squeezing his hands together.

“Yeah. He’s an okay person, like, I don’t like to judge, but he’s awfully conceited. You know, Christmas was last month, my birthday, too, and for my birthday, he gave me this picture book he’d gotten from his younger sisters. My little sister could read at a higher level than him, and she’s not even a preteen! And for Christmas, I got a portrait. Of _him._ Completely unethical, don’t you think? Mum decided to use it to fuel the fire we had that night. It was really mean, but we didn’t know what else to do with it. That was a pretty good idea, wasn’t it?”

Harry makes a face that tells Louis that he agrees, and he even laughs, and Louis smiles, grateful to have someone that listens. As great of a listener that Victoria or any of the other furniture is, he finds most of the comfort in Harry, liking how he meets his eyes with every word, smiling at the appropriate time and then grimacing whenever Louis sounds particularly indignant. “And how old is Zayn?” Harry asks nonchalantly, and it is his turn to lean forward, which Louis notices with a gentle laugh.

“He turns twenty-five in a few days, actually, so at least I’m not there for that…” Louis takes a sip from his juice just for something to do; as he sets it down, he looks to Harry. “How old are you?”

“I turn twenty-three next month,” Harry answers, voice soft. “And you, Louis?”

“I turned twenty-one on Christmas Eve,” Louis says, and Harry breaks out into a smile larger than any one that Louis has seen on him. Before either one of them can say anything else, a large bowl full of dressed salad hustles out of the kitchen, dropping lettuce every so often along the carpet until it clambers onto the table and stills in the center of it. Niall and Liam follow behind quickly, and Liam scrambles atop the table with a surprised expression.

“Aren’t you supposed to sit on the end side, Louis?” he asks innocently, turning to help Niall onto the table, and while Harry shoots the clock a glare Louis isn’t supposed to notice, Louis shakes his head, grabbing the salad bowl and peering into it.

“I wanted to _talk_ to Harry, not have to shout at him from across the way,” he explains with a polite smile, carefully placing salad onto his plate. He then holds the bowl out to Harry, and they share a grin as he grabs it, eyes lingering. “I quite like this, anyway,” he breathes in addition. “Harry’s nice to talk to.”

Niall turns and whispers something hastily – _loudly_ , although Louis cannot be bothered to listen – to Liam, who, afterwards, smiles gingerly and backs away towards the edge of the table. “I see,” he murmurs. “Well, Niall and I are going to clean the kitchen. Right Niall? You made a bit of a mess with dicing the tomatoes. Enjoy your lunch, mates.”

They both ungracefully leap off the table with the candlestick arguing over how difficult it is to properly dice tomatoes with flames for hands. He makes a giggly exit alongside Liam, and when the door closes again, Louis grabs his fork, poking at his salad. “You’re here all alone, yeah?” he asks quietly. The question doesn’t even need to be answered, not really; everything is much too quiet than how it would be if there were any other people. “As the only human, is what I mean. That’s a little…”

“Shitty,” Harry finishes bluntly. He jabs his fork into lettuce and carrot chunks and eats it, chewing choppily. His lips smack every so often. He doesn’t use a great amount of etiquette, but Louis looks past that with ease. “It’s shitty.”

Louis hums. “You’re cursing,” he notes as casually as possible, prodding a diced tomato around his plate. He eats slowly, covering his mouth with his hand as he speaks. “Maybe you could- could not do it? I’m not meaning to be picky, but I’m not fond of it. You don’t have to if it’s–”

“Stop.” Harry blinks for a moment before nodding, his face turning red again. He sets his fork down and wipes his hands on his pants distractedly. “Of course, Louis, I’m sorry. I won’t do it anymore. It’s no big deal.”

Louis smiles and murmurs his thanks, nudging Harry’s ankle with his own foot under the table. Harry grins and returns the gesture, and the remainder of lunch is filled with friendly stares and soft giggles. There is even the occasional throwing of carrot bits, consisting of hearty laughs and quiet squeals of incredulity. Conversation is lengthy and friendly, and after twenty minutes, Harry places his elbows on the table and sets his chin in his hands, turning to glance out the window. “It’s snowing again,” he whispers. “Look.”

Louis pivots in his chair and smiles outside, where the bright snow reflects the midday sun. “It’s really pretty, _vous ne pensez pas?_ My sisters always play in the snow.” Licking his lips, Louis faces Harry once more. With eager eyes, he leans forward and places his hand on top of Harry’s. “Can I go outside to see it?”

“I thought I told you not to leave the castle.” This time, there is no steel in Harry’s voice. He’s taken on a knowing tone, his lips quirked up slightly. His hand twitches underneath Louis’ and Louis holds it tighter. “I _know_ I told you, as a matter of fact.”

“All I want to do is see the snow, _Harry_.” Louis sighs dramatically and pouts, finishing the last of his juice and pushing everything towards the center of the table. “There’s not much to do otherwise. You’re always shut away and I don’t even have anything to read! All my books are at home!”

“So you like to read?” Harry questions, changing the course of the conversation ad tucking loose strands of curls behind his ears. Louis immediately perks, eyes wide, head nodding frantically.

“It’s my favorite thing to do,” he mutters. He is not shy so much as he is hesitant, his words leaving his mouth slowly while he stares at Harry, searching for any reaction in the form of distaste. “I love it more than anything. It’s just so wonderful.”

“That’s…that’s interesting, little one,” Harry says thoughtfully, and Louis makes a face that is dismissed with a lenient chuckle. Harry means it, he’s truly found interest, and that is why Louis can’t muster up any reliable annoyance towards the nickname. The twang in his heart at the thought of Bern doesn’t hurt as badly, anyway. Harry begins to say something more, but before he can, the notorious grandfather clock chimes loudly, wary and sweet. Harry stiffens before rising hastily to his feet, eyes casting downward.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asks, moving to stand as well, and Harry takes his hand, fingertips soft as he bends down to connect his lips to the back of it. His lips are warm, as expected, and gleefully pleasant, for Louis’ skin ignites in prickles. Although he is confused, Louis still smiles. “Do you have to go somewhere?”

“I do,” Harry confirms, and he drops Louis’ hand with a squeeze. He makes quick work of pushing in his chair before starting towards the foyer. “Thanks for having lunch with me. I hope you had a good time. I’ll see you later today, okay? I promise.”

“Uh- alright.” Louis smoothens his sweater. He bites his lip as Harry leaves, and he wants to follow, but he stays awkwardly still, bouncing on the heels of his feet. “Can I…can I got outside or not?” he calls after Harry. “Can I?”

Harry is long gone before he has the chance to answer. Louis looks around before pushing in his chair and sighing, gathering the dirty dishes and carrying them into the kitchen in his arms. He is only a little bit down that Harry had left so quickly.

“Liam? Niall?” he calls with a slight smirk, looking around the bright room. Unmanned mops and dishrags tidy up the space, but no one else is in sight. “If one of you see Mama Lou, can you tell her I’m going to be outside if she needs me?”

                                                                                                **//**

                “Show me Louis’ village,” Harry says, clear and decisive, and he turns the mirror in his hands, gazing at it as it pulls up his request. He isn’t quite sure how the handheld mirror works, nor is he sure how it got to his room in the first place. It has been here since the beginning, since day one of him being a beast, and he knows that he hasn’t touched it but three times in all five years. He has had no real need to use it until now. He takes care of it, though, and while he doesn’t use it frequently, it sits behind the casing with the rose in it, treasured as equally.

Harry looks in the refection once more, and sees the swirls of what could be clouds as well as the blur of a blue sky. He’s always found it fascinating how it can pull his request out of thin air, knowing exactly what he is referring to. As the image slowly twirls into focus, he mumbles out, “let me see the boys from last night, please” with a small, patient smile.

He is in the best mood he’s been in in a while. The curtains in his bedroom are drawn open, letting in more light than his room as seen in years. He’d even attempted to make his bed when he got back from lunch; the room is still horribly messy, but the cheery vibe is there. He’s been in his room for nearly two hours now, craving the time he’ll return to the less-gruesome man he is. He’ll then be able to find Louis once more and spend another hour with him, and even though it isn’t even close to the amount of time Harry wants to spend with the boy, he’ll take it; God, will he take it.

The mirror dives in on four men as they sit in a pub, on the road towards getting drunk even though it is not even three in the afternoon. All of the men are completely identifiable except for one, but Harry soon recognizes the fourth as Zayn, long haired and shiny-eyed and handsome, much to his distaste.

_“You’re mental,” Zayn says lazily in response to some unknown question; he traces a trembling finger along the rim of his beer glass while his right hand struggles to support his heavy head. He looks incredibly bored and tipsy to an ever greater extent, hardly paying any mind to the three men that sit around and in front of him._

_“I swear, Z,” one man grumbles, and it’s the redhead one, his face glum with a trace of irritation. His stare is hazy. “It’s like he wasn’t even human, that thing. He had this crazy hair and crazy teeth and his eyes were so bright. He_ growled _, for fuck’s sake. You heard him, too, didn’t you, Dillon? You heard him, like, roar?”_

 _The shaggy one hums into his glass as he raises it to his lips, taking a sloppy chug from it. Beer dribbles down his chin and into his mess of a beard. “Yeah, mate,” he belches. “He was…like, protectin’ that Louis boy. And Louis_ listened _, too. Ran off into the woods like a good boy, fuck.” His eyes glaze over; a lip is pulled between his teeth. “Quite a sight.”_

_“Ah, fuck Louis,” Zayn spits, sitting up straight. His eyes flash dangerously as his fist crashes into the table, startling the other men. “Fuck him. Fuck him.” He blinks, a sigh leaving his slightly parted lips.” His mother is so concerned, shit, that crazy loon. Louis takes after her, too, you know. That whole lot of a family is mental. Hell, Louis wouldn’t even marry me, and all that I’ve done for him…he ought to be out there on his own, he’ll come running back…and you know what I’ll say…ah…fuck Louis…”_

Harry swipes his hand over the mirror with a growl, and the scene dissipates into nothing. His vision is tinted red around the edges and he knows that he is overreacting – Zayn isn’t even here – but he cannot help it. After a few deep breaths and several drags of his fingers through his hair, in a quiet murmur, he voices his next request. “Louis’ home, please. I’d like to see his family.”

Almost immediately, Harry is brought to the inside of a cabin, which looks exceptionally cozy. He smiles for the few moments he’s got before it turns into a frown.

_“Mum! Yesterday in school, Alexander said his big brother saw Louis last night!” The same little girl that had appeared at the castle just days ago tugs insistently on her mother’s dress, a small, hesitant grin on her face. The mother stands by the window, wringing out a cloth, which seems to be already pretty dry. She then drapes it along the windowsill. “Louis is okay! Alexander said that his brother said that the monster–”_

_“Charlotte, love, I don’t want to hear that anymore,” the mother says gently, and when she turns around, she is crying, her eyes rimmed a hot red. Tears become caught in her thick eyelashes before falling gracefully down her cheeks. “You told me the same thing this morning, and…and thank you for doing so, but... I am afraid it is not making me feel any better.” She sniffles, covering her mouth with her hand._

_“Louis told me that he was going to be okay, Mama!” Charlotte pouts. “And if I was brought home safely, then he will be safe, too! Louis is strong, Mama, just like Daddy was. You told me that all the Tomlinson’s are strong. Louis’ going to come back one day, I know it, and he will be just fine because he is strong.”_

_“None of the hunters will help me find him,” the mother whispers mostly to herself, appearing to have tuned out everything her daughter had claimed, “and I’m so unfamiliar with the woods, as are you and your sisters…oh, I hope he’s not cold…I hope he’s eating…”_

Harry wipes his hand over the mirror once more before setting it down gently, turning his face away. He is grateful for Charlotte’s attitude towards the subject, but the remorse he feels for upsetting Louis’ mother gnaws at him. The clock suddenly chimes, long before Harry can get lost in his guilt, and he smiles shakily, waiting in hope and closing his eyes.

In just a few moments, Harry begins to change; his hair becomes cleaner and his hands get smaller. Butterflies churn in his belly and his grin stretches wide. As he converts into his more pleasant form, he looks to the mirror, which is face-down. He makes a silent promise to Louis’ mother that he will keep her son safe in every way possible, will take care of him. Never again does he want Louis to be caught in a one-sided relationship with a man who cares more for himself than anything, nor does he want Louis’ mother to sob helplessly over him.

                                                                                                **//**

                When Harry leaves his bedroom to begin his search for Louis, he cannot even make it halfway down the hall before Liam approaches him, looking shy and wary Harry smiles back, because how can he not when things are going so wonderfully? He asks how the clock is, but Liam’s face hardens before he even answers.

“Louis has gone outside, Harry,” he says bluntly, falling in step alongside Harry. He isn’t ratting Louis out as much as he is informing, sounding awfully nervous as he does so. “Louise told me he’s playing out in the snow. Don’t worry, Niall’s watching ‘im so he doesn’t run into any trouble.”

Harry hums, and he can’t help it when he rolls his eyes, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Irritation threatens to consume him, but it fails to cause any effect other than a grunt and the shake of his head. “Why doesn’t he listen, Liam?” he asks rhetorically. A smile splits his lips two moments later, and God, is it wide, stretching his face so that his muscles are painfully unfamiliar with the gesture. “Hm? Why does insist on not listening to me?”

“Perhaps that’s just how he is, Harry.” There is a shrug in Liam’s voice. “He’s a defiant young man.”

“He is, and I believe I adore that,” Harry gushes, chuckling lightly. He reaches the foyer and goes into the living room, where he then peers out of the window that displays the backyard. Like Liam said, Louis is out in the snow, stomping around with what looks like a dog, and the large animal is equally as animated. Snow is being thrown about, and off to the side is the beginning of a snowman – simply the base and a few more masses of snow beside it. Louis’ smile is so bright, and his cheeks are so flushed, and when he slips to the ground in a less-than-graceful way, he throws his head back and laughs, letting the dog trample over and lick the side of his face.

“I think I’ve got to do something for him, Li,” Harry says wistfully. He presses his hand against the window, tapping away at it absentmindedly. He racks his brain for an idea, thinking over what Louis said he’d liked earlier during lunch. He recalls Louis’ meek confessions that he adores teaching, and that he wishes he had a little brother. “I want to do something he will remember. Something he’ll like. Something he’ll like _me_ for _doing_.”

Liam chuckles knowingly, although there is a tinge of uncertainty. As he teases, he is cautious. “Trying to win him over then, yeah? Let me tell you, though: the way you tend to get, I’m not too sure how that’s going to play out for you. This morning was a miracle to Niall and I. I asked him ‘Ni, what did you put in Louis’ juice to make him so smiley towards–‘”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up, Liam.” Harry mumbles with the ghost of a smile, and he makes his way to the front door, leaving a softly laughing Liam behind. Despite the freezing weather, Harry pulls on his shoes and goes outside in just his long-sleeved shirt and pants. His breath clouds the air as he circles around the massive house, his feet dragging along in the snow.

“Louis,” he greets when he gets to the backyard, settling beside the attempted snowman. He crosses his arms tightly over his chest and shivers a bit, smiling small.

Louis whips around at the sound of his name, having not noticed Harry before then, and the dog turns, too, long-haired and mangy. Harry hasn’t the slightest idea where it came from. Louis is dressed warmly – Harry is incredibly grateful; he wouldn’t want to boy to freeze again – in a wooly coat and mittens, a snowcap pulled down to his eyebrows. His nose, cherry red, scrunches up along with his eyes as he smiles, bending down to pat the dog before jogging towards Harry.

“Hello.” Louis blinks innocently up at Harry, crossing his arms mockingly and then giggling when Harry scowls at him. “You’re cold, aren’t you?”

“Oi, Louis, I’m fine,” Harry barks playfully, reaching out and tugging Louis’ snowcap down over his eyes. Louis begins to laugh, his frozen fingertips fixing his cap, and the dog behind him yelps, trotting over to sit down beside Louis.

“Look at the dog I found,” Louis breathes, squatting down beside the animal. It turns to lick at his face, and Louis laughs even louder, warming Harry’s heart. “I think it’s a girl. Well, I _know_ it’s a girl. I found her in the woods! I wish she wouldn’t be so cold… Do you think we can keep her, Harry? I’ll let you name her if she can stay. She doesn’t even have to stay in the actual castle; she can stay in the little barn I saw a little ways in the woods. Is it part of the castle, too? Can she stay in there?”

Harry wants to say that the dog absolutely cannot stay, and he also wants to let this be the one thing Louis will like him for doing, but he’s got something else in mind, so with a shrug, he waves a dismissive hand. “Sure, Lou,” he says, the name flowing off of his tongue for the first time. Louis must catch it, because his cheeks become an even rosier red and he looks down at his buried toes. “We can keep her in the barn. I’ll have Niall and Liam take her back there in a bit.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Louis grins, scratching the dog’s back as he rises upright again. “She’ll be no trouble at all. We can put blankets out there and everything. She’ll probably eat anything for food, don’t you think? What’re you going to name her?”

Harry grunts, rocking on his heels. “What’s your middle name?” He asks suddenly.

“Why, it’s William.”

“She will be called Wil _ma_ , then.” Harry grins. Louis throws his head back and laughs, giggly and bright. He is so lovely, and it causes Harry to frown for a fraction of a second. Again, he feels a little bad for the situation he’s placed the poor boy in, but he needs – _wants_ – to have this boy fall in love with him so harshly, so deeply, and he wants to love him all the same, maybe even more.

“That sounds nothing like my middle name, Harry!” he protests. When the giggles die down, he glances at the dog with a smile. “I like it, though. Wilma. Hey, Wilma. You’re a pretty dog.”

Harry smiles fondly and tosses his head back in a gesture towards the house, feeling a little numb now, like his toes are slowly becoming nonexistent. “Let’s go inside, yeah? I’ve got something to show you. You’ll enjoy it, I know.”

“Okay,” Louis says immediately, softly, and he steps forward, slipping his arm elegantly through Harry’s. He holds tight, smelling of cotton and fruit. He isn’t tense, but rather loose; relaxed and cold. “Um, stay, Wilma,” he says to the dog, gripping Harry’s forearm lightly. “Stay. Be a good dog.”

Harry chuckles as he leads Louis back into the house, and as they step through the snow, he hears the dog running about again, barking happily. Louis keeps looking back over his shoulder, and the third time it happens, Harry faces Louis, eyebrows furrowed in amused questioning: _are you worried, darling?_ Louis stares back shyly, his eyes a very clear blue. His lips are flushed red and parted slightly, and Harry loses his train of thought for a moment. “I’ll call Liam and Niall to get her as soon as we get inside,” he says when his mind is gathered once more. “She’ll be just fine.”

Keeping his promise, as he helps Louis out of some of his snow gear, Harry tells the clock and candlestick to make a small home for the dog in the barn. His former friends raise what would be their eyebrows at him, but it’s shrewd, and when Louis kicks off his shoes and moves to place them against the wall, Niall teeters over with a smirk on his face.

“You’re going to be one of those men who do absolutely everything under the sun for their special someone, aren’t you?” he teases. “I mean, really? A _dog_? In a _barn_? Shit, you _are_ going to be one of those people!”

“Just do it, Niall, dammit,” Harry hisses. Louis approaches just as Niall shrugs and leaves with Liam, and he’s smiling all soft, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

“What is it you’ve got to show me, then?” he asks, and Harry shifts his feet, chewing at his lower lip thoughtfully. He reaches for the scarf Louis still has wrapped around his neck, takes it off, and lets it hang in the air for just a bit, glancing at it mischievously. “What are you doing with _that_?”

“I’m going to tie it around your eyes, is that okay? What I have to show you is a _surprise_.” Harry carefully approaches Louis with either end of the scarf in both hands. Louis’ skeptical look goes soft when Harry whispers to him that he won’t harm him, and his eyes flutter closed.

“Alright, I trust you,” he murmurs, tilting his head up. Harry’s heart gives a satisfied lurch as he ties the scarf as gently as possible around Louis’ eyes, his face so close to the smaller lad’s as he fastens a loose knot around the back of his head. “You ought to not trick me,” Louis adds in a high tone, his petite hands rising to adjust the scarf once Harry draws his hands away. A small, wan smile graces his lips. “I’d have to get you back, and you wouldn’t want that.”

“ _Really_ ,” Harry breathes animatedly, false astonishment in his tone, waving his hand in front of Louis’ face to see if the boy can see it. Louis does nothing in response to the gesture, doesn’t even flinch, and so Harry turns him around, guiding him down the hall with a soft hand to the middle of his back.

He walks slowly so Louis doesn’t trip himself up, but the small man still manages to stumble like walking blindly is the hardest thing to accomplish, his tiny hands outstretched in front of him warningly. “Are we almost there, Harry?” he asks softly after several minutes of walking. A sigh falls past Harry’s lips as he gazes at the staircase that they’ve approached, his hand making a sensual transition to take one of Louis’. He definitely doesn’t mean to have his palm skimming along the dip of Louis’ back, nor does he intend to have his fingers grazing along the entire length of his arm.

“We have to go up the steps,” he explains. He takes Louis’ other hand and starts backwards up the grand staircase, smiling softly at the small frown Louis’ lips fall into. “There aren’t many,” he reassures, “I’ve got you.”

“Oh, are you taking me to your bedroom?” Louis asks innocently enough, his foot faltering before landing on a step. As before, they go slowly, and Harry takes so much pride in the way Louis squeezes his fingers. “You’re taking me to your bedroom, aren’t you? Why is it so messy, anyway?”

“We’re not going into my bedroom,” Harry whispers in response. His voice is strained at the thought of taking Louis to his bedroom _blindfolded_ , and his reasons behind doing so leave his head swimming suggestively. He could completely ravish Louis, could own him, could mark him over in every single way possible. He could get the boy to fall completely pliant underneath him, and he could get him so–

“ _Hello_?” Louis scoffs, squeezing Harry’s hands insistently. He trots up a few more steps, and Harry chuckles lightly, stumbling backwards in order to keep up. “Tell me why your room is such a pigsty. Or- even better, tell me why I’m not allowed in it!”

“I don’t let any of the workers into my room,” he tells Louis smoothly, who listens with his eyebrows furrowed underneath the scarf. “And if they don’t clean it, the room simply doesn’t get clean. And, little one, I told you before; you’re not allowed in it because there’s nothing for you to see.”

“There is _too_ something to see,” Louis argues, stomping up a few more steps. “Like that flower. Wasn’t it a rose? It was such a pretty rose, Harry. What’s it for? _Dîtes-moi_.”

“Don’t worry about it, Louis,” Harry whispers. He pulls Louis up the remaining steps, and Louis lets go of Harry’s hands once he is grounded, feeling around once more and finding nothing but the railing of the staircase. “It’s better if you don’t worry about it.”

“Mm, alright,” Louis says wistfully, shrugging his shoulders. Just like that, the conversation drops, and Harry exhales a relieved breath. He guides Louis down the east hallway and towards the library with a steady hand on his arm.

“We’re almost there,” he tells Louis, and after a short, silent walk, they approach the large library doors, which haven’t been opened any other time than when Louise’ sends the cleaners to straighten up. He steps in front of Louis to open the doors, and when he turns to look at the young man over his shoulder, he is smiling excitedly, toying with his fingers.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks like he senses Harry’s gaze. There is a single pause of silence, where Harry can do nothing more than gaze at the beautiful boy as he gnaws at his lip like bruising a flower petal. Louis’ mouth suddenly form a nice, pretty ‘O’ at the quietness, his hands beginning to pick at his scarf. “Wait, can I take my blindfold off now? We’re here?”

“No, Louis!” Harry mutters, and he opens the French doors and pulls Louis inside by yanking gently at the front of his shirt, closing the doors just as quickly and surrounding them both in darkness. “Now, stay right there, Lou. I’m going to open the drapes so we can see. Give me ten seconds. Don’t move.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n.” Cheekily, Louis begins to count, sweet and teasing, and Harry laughs loudly, running blindly over to the massive windows across the library. By the time Louis gets to the number six, he is flinging open the heavy, navy drapes. He ties them aside messily and hurries back over to Louis, who sings out the number two with such a pretty voice. Harry stands in front of him, arms folded in authority although a smile splits his face in two.

“One,” Louis breathes out, and even though Harry is directly in front of him, he adds loudly, “Harry, I’m taking the blindfold off! It’s been ten seconds!”

“Alright, dear,” Harry whispers, slipping into his heart and mind, and he rocks on the heels of his feet as Louis pulls off the blindfold, rubbing his eyes as he lets the scarf fall to the floor.

“Oh- you’re right in front- my apologies for yelling,” Louis murmurs with a giggle once he opens his eyes, and he bends down to collect the scarf, not yet looking around him. He balls the scarf up in his hand and thrusts it out to Harry. “Take it, yeah? That thing was–”

Louis’ eyes lock on a spot above Harry’s head and he trails off completely, his mouth falling open, and Harry beams, stepping aside so Louis can see properly. They’re in an awfully grand room, and Harry recalls it as one of the largest in the entire house. Above the both of them, as well as all around them, are thousands of books – _tens_ of thousands – tucked so tightly into their shelves that Harry doubts they will be easy to get out anymore. The walls are high, and books are tucked in even towards the ceiling. A series of white staircases with bronze railings weave up around the shelves for easy access to the books, although hundreds of them remain out of reach.

“You told me that you enjoy reading this morning,” Harry says eagerly, watching Louis. The boy doesn’t move other than the slow turn of his head, his eyes sparkling as he looks around. “Do you remember that? Well, I figured that you’d like this, and since I haven’t used it since I was a boy, I thought you’d want it. It’s yours if you want it.”

“What?” Louis blinks slowly before turning to face Harry, his lips curved into a hesitant, broad smile. He takes a small step forward, appearing to be challenging. “You’re kidding! You’re _joking_ , aren’t you? You’re a _liar_ , a filthy one, aren’t you? I can have it?”

Harry purses his lips, not quite sure what to make of the vibe that Louis is so strongly giving on. He’s only the slightest bit offended; only a little because Louis is so bouncy and endearing. “Yeah, Louis,” he murmurs unsurely. He subconsciously bites at his fingernails, wanting so badly to please Louis. “It’s all yours.”

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis groans, and then he shrieks, surging forward and wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck. Harry is brought down by the pull of Louis’ arms with a heavy tug, but he circles his arms around Louis’ waist, laughing brightly. Louis curves nicely into him, stumbling around on the tops of his toes. “This is so amazing, thank you,” Louis mumbles into his neck. “I’ve _literally_ never seen _anything_ like it. This is the loveliest thing anyone’s ever done. The _loveliest_. I- I just–” Louis pulls away and holds the sides of Harry’s face, his fingertips cold. Harry really wants to kiss his nose, his forehead, his rosebud cheeks. “Read with me, Harry,” Louis suggests, eyes wide. “Would you like to read with me?”

Harry nods faster than he ever has before, dreamily smiling as Louis smacks a kiss to the tip of his chin and takes off towards one of the copious shelves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you have to say! xx. Happy holidays!


	9. VIII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Stockholm Syndrome plays quietly in the background** Enjoy! c:

                Hauling the wicker basket full of clothes is hard for Louis, seeing as there is no possible way to hold it without straining some part of his body. It is incredibly large, and surprisingly full of his filthy clothes, half of them wet and heavy, and the other half simply smelling strongly of smoke due to his habit of sitting in front of the fire all day, every day. The wicker basket pricks his belly when he holds it against his torso, but it bites at his arms when he holds it out, so he eventually settles for dragging it along the carpet, stopping every so often to collect the clothing that falls out, the balled up socks that roll away.

He is alone again, but he normally always is during this time of the day, when the sun is in its awkward, leisure descent below the trees. He likes it, of course, simply because it gives him time to admire the colors seeping through the window, and even though loneliness delivers sharp pangs to his heart, he knows he hasn’t been completely abandoned. Everyone is preparing for dinner in the kitchen, and even Lux – who Louis already knows he will not be able to live without – is assisting her mother. Taking his laundry to the washroom is his new job, evidently, with it having been proclaimed approximately five days after being brought to the castle. As his stay stretches out into two weeks, this is a regular thing: however many clothes he ruins by rolling about in the snow for hours on end, he is to lug it down several hallways to the washroom in the back of the castle.

There isn’t much Louis has to say any more about being locked up in the mansion. There has been a couple of nights where he cannot help but to weep into his soft bed sheets, letting the hole in his heart open up once more at the loss of his family, his prior life. He knows he’s being treated nicely, however, and that is exactly what fastens the hole back up. Even though Harry isn’t around but for a few hours at any given time of the day, he feels like a royal in this big castle, and nothing short of that.

Louis smells an assortment of stewing vegetables as he trudges down some hallway that must be near the kitchen, and his stomach growls as he sets down his laundry basket to stretch out his limbs. The clock chimes five o’clock as he’s wriggling his fingers, and he hums along with its hourly ring, letting his head dance along in the air. It tilts back, his eyes close, and he just breathes, inhaling the vegetable soup aroma and the clean air around him.

By the time the tune is over, Louis’ arms are no longer tired from tugging the wicker backset around. He picks it up and begins to drag it along again, sighing lightly, contentedly. He is at the end of the hallway when a hand skims along his lower back, fingertips curving on his hipbone for a quarter of a second. A breath floats at his ear, hot and mysterious, and he can feel a smile directed toward the back of his head. Louis hardly startles, pinching his eyes shut as a giggle falls from his lips. His head tilts lazily, eyelids fluttering.

“There you are, Louis,” Harry rumbles, his voice like the soft velvet beneath Louis’ bare toes, and Louis rolls his head back to smile, his cheeks heating up at the direct acknowledgement. After a steady glance at the man, Louis pivots his body and drops the wicker basket to his feet, lifting his hand in an awkward semi-wave.

“Hi, Harry,” he murmurs, his heart swelling up in his throat. When he sees Harry, he knows that he is going to be around for an hour, that they will share exactly sixty minutes in each other’s company. Louis looks forward to it; in fact, he is willing to admit that it is the highlight of every single day. He doesn’t completely understand why Harry is always leaving after an hour, but he doesn’t press it, not wanting to cross the man. They are on acquainted terms, and Louis can even go as far as saying that the man has grown onto him enough to be considered as a friend.

Small conversations have turned into hour long debates whilst sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace with tea and cookies, and last week, on day six, Harry even began walking Louis to his room every night he was with him, hugging him close enough for Louis to smell suspiciously of him when he went into his bedroom. He was gentle, very hesitant, fingertips pressing into the base of his spine. Almost every hour of their allotted time together was usually spent in the library, where Louis read to Harry and Harry listened with fond smiles and opened ears.

“I’m glad you came,” Louis whispers truthfully, reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair back out of his face. He prods at his dirty laundry with his big toe, his hand rubbing along the back of his neck. “I didn’t want to have dinner all alone again. It’s not as fun without you to talk to.”

“I’m sure Niall and the pots would’ve kept you company, though, hm?” Harry murmurs, bending down the pick up the wicker basket. His curls fall down into his face as he stares into the basket, at all the clothes. He looks up with a smile, dimples cratering his cheeks. “It took me a while to find you,” he explains. “You weren’t in the library like you always are, and you weren’t outside or in your room, and you weren’t in front of the fire. And here you are, hauling away your dirty knickers without any socks on. I would have never guessed.”

“Stop that,” Louis hisses, batting at Harry’s arm. His eyebrows knit in annoyance, but Harry shrugs and smiles like it doesn’t get to him, holding the wicker basket underneath his right arm while he uses his other hand to nudge Louis’ chin up. His pointer finger grazes his lower lip, and Louis wants to bite it, but his chilly fingers cool Louis’ face and he begins to fall in a trance.

“I’m teasing you, little one,” Harry whispers, and Louis scowls even though he feels like he’s floating. He feels warm under Harry’s gaze and touch, enjoying the attention. It’s far more appealing than what he has received from Zayn or anyone else from the village in the past. “I think your knickers are quite cute, dirty or not. And that’s when they’re _not_ on that bum of yours. Now, imagine how cute they probably are when–”

“ _Excuse_ me,” Louis yelps, taking the basket from Harry’s arm. He’s smiling against his will, the corners of his lips pulled up shyly while the tips of his ears blush pink. “I’ve got something I’m supposed to be doing, you _beast_.” He gets the reaction he wants when Harry bares his teeth and makes a noise that resembles an agitated growl. Louis smirks. “You’re distracting me. I’ll see you at dinner.”

“I’ll take the basket,” Harry insists, and Louis shakes his head once before the dirty clothes are torn out of his hands and hoisted into Harry’s arms. His voice is hard like it gets when he’s using every ounce of authority he’s got, and Louis resents it because it works. It no longer scares him, however, and he is proud of that fact.  “Listen to me, Louis. Let me do this. Go put some socks on your feet and head to dinner; I wouldn’t want to you fall ill. I’ll be quick.”

“You don’t tell me what to do, _Harry_ ,” Louis mutters, but he listens, _of course_ he does, because he knows of nothing else to do other than to cooperate. He goes to dinner, at least, refusing to follow instructions completely and put on the socks. He takes his seat at the dining table, which has subconsciously been the chair right beside Harry’s, and sits cross-legged, taking his napkin and folding it across his lap.

Harry joins him five minutes later, settling into the chair a foot away from him and eyeing him closely, green eyes warm. Louis is only able to stare back for a short amount of time before lowering his gaze to his lap, swallowing his butterflies. “Did you put on socks like I asked?” Harry murmurs, placing his hands on the table. He fiddles with a fork, watching it squirm.

“I…no. I did not.” Louis grins down towards his crotch, and when he looks up, Harry’s mouth is in a strange form of a half-smile. “What?” Louis challenges, giggling; floating.

“I like it when you refuse to listen to me,” Harry admits in a soft, matter-of-fact tone, and Louis begins to squirm like the utensil between Harry’s fingers, releasing a hiccupping sort of breath. This is one of those _moments_ – where Louis doesn’t know what to do, much less what to say, so the two boys simply share a look, where Louis is internally falling apart and Harry looks incredibly smug. “Even though it’s rather annoying,” Harry adds quietly, “there’s something endearing about it. And don’t get me wrong: I still wish you did listen to me.”

“Well, you’re not my mother, so you don’t have to worry about _that_ ,” Louis says cheekily, smacking his hands down on the table for added affect. He makes a face at Harry, his nose drawn up tightly and his eyes squinted closed, pink tongue poking out, and when he opens his eyes again, Harry is even closer to him, his hand stretching out to meet Louis’, his pinkie laced beneath his ring finger.

Louis smiles.

                                                                                                **//**

                Harry makes it through fifteen minutes of lunch with his usual attentive staring, watching with a ghost of a smile on his lips as Louis animatedly talks, his wrists flicking about as he insists that he doesn’t like the idea of hunting because he adores animals too much. Louis always does most of the talking, and Harry has no doubt that this has been silently decided between the two of them: Louis speaks, and Harry listens. Every once in a while, Louis would press a question: _“what do_ you _think, Haz?”_ or _“that doesn’t make any sense, does it?”_ , but other than that, Harry prefers to watch masterpieces form from an awaiting canvas.

Harry is surprised when, at quarter-past five, Louis pushes back his hardly eaten bowl of soup, wiping off his mischievous smirk with his dinner cloth before tossing the cloth onto the table. Harry, with another bite of his stew raised to his lips, raises an eyebrow, clearing his throat.

“What’s wrong, Lou?” he asks, setting his spoon down and wiping his hands on his thighs. “You don’t like the food?”

“No, it’s always good,” Louis insists, inching his chair back. He sways slightly as he untucks his legs from underneath him, planting his feet on the ground. With his wide, blue eyes directed at him, Harry notices a slow change from sky-blue to blue-grey. Harry is certain it has to do with the dark drapes behind him that sheathe the windows. When he’s outside, his eyes are very light. When the room is aglow due to nothing but candlelight, they’re dark. Harry imagines that they’ll be just as dark when he’s got Louis on his bedspread, but he can never think about that for very long.

“Then why aren’t you eating?” Harry asks, nodding down towards his own food. For a moment he panics, remembering his unprecedented promise to Louis’ mother that he will feed her boy, will keep him safe. “You need to finish eating.”

 “I don’t want to eat anymore. I’m not hungry. I’ll eat later if I do get hungry, I promise.” Louis slouches back in his chair, throwing his upper half across the cherry-wood arm rest. The edge of his shirt rises and exposes a sliver of his pale abdomen as he groans, a light and defiant little sound, and it’s beautiful. “I want to do something with you other than eat, Harry. I probably won’t see you for a really long time when six o’clock comes, and I want to do something really fun.” Louis shoots up in his chair quickly enough for it to startle Harry. Shyly, he looks at Harry through his eyelashes. “Why do you always have to leave? Do you _want_ to stay with me for only one hour at a time?”

Harry feels guilty, and with a sigh, he pushes his bowl back, reaching forward and grasping Louis’ hands in his own. They’re ice cold, the small things, so he holds them tighter, knowing based off of the small smile that graces Louis’ lips that everything is okay. “Oh, of course not. I want to spend all of my time with you,” he says, toying with Louis’ fingertips, his nails. “I don’t want to leave you, but I don’t want you to see me in the same way you saw me at first. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“When you were scary?” Louis asks sensitively, licking his lips. Harry only stares, his heart sinking. “I don’t think you were _that_ scary. Even if you were, I’d still want to see you. I don’t care how you look, you know. Handsome or beastly, I- I’ll take either.”

“I don’t want you to see me like that; I’m not good when I’m like that.” He is so sure. Even with how he is now, he knows it is a miracle that Louis even gave him a glance. He doesn’t want what he has started with Louis to change. With his voice raw, Harry clears his throat, squeezing Louis’ hands gently before releasing them. “But, hey, what would you like to do? You have officially convinced me to do something fun. Do you want to go to the library again? How about you read to me? I enjoy that.”

Louis’ insecurity seems to have been thrown out the window when he smiles, eyes sparkling. “I don’t want to read this time, Harry. Let’s _play_.”

“Play,” Harry repeats slowly, and he likes how it sounds rolling off of Louis’ tongue rather than his own. The different ways that the single word can be interpreted cause delicious warmth to spread within Harry’s belly, and he has to hide a smirk, knowing that Louis can’t mean anything other than the fact that he wants a game. “What would you like to play?”

“Well, we’re in a big home, and it’s just the two of us…” Louis giggles, rising out of his seat. He pushes his chair in with his hip and heads down the length of the table, towards the exit. He glances over his shoulder, his chin tucked cutely on top of it, and he smiles. “You know how to play hide-and-seek, don’t you? My little sisters make me play it all the time with them. Count to twenty, and then come find me. And don’t you cheat, Haz.”

“Okay, Louis,” Harry chuckles, and Louis squeaks in excitement as he dashes out of the room, taking a sharp left turn down the hall. Harry counts slowly, loudly, to twenty as he rises to his feet, stacking up the dinner plates and covering the bowl of stew with the lid. He begins to stroll out of the room when he hits fifteen, hands in his pockets, and when he gets to twenty, he turns left at the exit of the dining hall, looking around the candlelit hallway. “I hope you’re hidden well!”

Harry never thought he would ever run around a house playing hide-and-seek with a twenty-one year old man, but he gives the game every ounce of his participation, opening doors and peeking behind curtains to find Louis. He searches for ten minutes up and down the hallways, calling out the lad’s name although he knows he isn’t going to get an answer.

As soon as he steps foot on the second floor of the mansion, he hears a rustle and a hissing shush, and Harry smiles, looking down. His eyes follow the red carpet on the floor, heading down the west side of the hall, and they stop beneath a small lamp desk, where Louis is curled up, partially shielded by the shadows. His back is turned, his head facing two confused broomsticks as they sweep the hall.

Harry smiles and silently creeps forward, crouching down. As soon as he is close enough to Louis to be able to see every single breath he takes, he reaches out and pinches the boy’s side, causing Louis to screech and unfurl his body as he scrambles out from beneath the small table. He turns around, eyes wide, and then he grins, crawling to his feet.

“You found me,” he giggles, practically radiating, glowing as he fixes his hair. “The brooms were wondering what I was doing,” he explains lightly, bounding forward. He stumbles into Harry’s chest, arms cradled against his own, gripping his shoulders, and he presses his giggles into Harry’s collarbone, leaving Harry to confusedly wrap his arms around him. Louis is giddy, and that causes him to be giddy, too, so he sways a bit, lifting Louis off of the ground in order to move him, leaving him to tiptoe around. “I shouldn’t have shushed them; that’s how you found me, innit? I was making noise.”

Harry hums to confirm, releasing Louis with his hands on his shoulders. He smiles down at him. “Yeah, sorry, lovely. Go hide again, how about it? I’ll count even slower this round so you can hide somewhere proper.”

“Okay,” Louis squeaks before turning around and heading down the staircase, moving as quickly as his legs allow him to. “And then you’ve got to hide, too,” he calls back up, and Harry watches him go down the staircase, a hand in his hair to hold it out of his face. “You’re after me. _Ne oubliez pas_! ”

“ _Bien, chère_ ,” Harry breathes, and he closes his eyes and starts to count, reaching forty just so Louis has a little more time. When he’s through, he immediately goes downstairs, asking the wandering furniture where the young man had gone, and he’s smiling, content and warm in his heart. The second search for Louis takes longer than he would have liked, and after twenty-five minutes of crawling around and peeking inside abandoned bedrooms, he finally stumbles upon Louis tucked behind a curtain, his petite frame noticeably shaping the thick fabric.

“Louis,” Harry practically sings, grinning, and he wraps his arms around Louis’ body, basking in the eruption of giggles that occur as a result. Louis writhes underneath the curtain, his groans dissipating into laughs and squealing pleads, and after a solid minute, Harry lets him go, allowing him to shimmy out from behind the curtain.

“That one took you longer,” Louis whispers matter-of-factly, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink, and he places his hands on his hips, gazing up at Harry. “I was going to hide in that dungeon thing you’ve got all the way upstairs, but both you and Mama Lou would have gotten cross for going up there, plus I would’ve gotten cold myself. Okay, now it’s your turn now. I’ll start c–”

Before Louis can finish, the grandfather clock rings, and Harry heart sinks alongside the look on Louis’ face. Harry watches the young man’s eyes drop to the floor throughout the entire tune, and when it’s over, he glances up, eyes begging so sadly.

“Don’t go,” he whispers before Harry has the chance to open his mouth and apologize. His hands furl and unfurl down at his sides, his movements anxious. “It feels like it’s only been ten minutes, Harry! I know it’s probably boring playing hide-and-seek, and maybe it’s a child’s game, but I don’t mind being boring with you and I like playing silly games. We can even do something else if you want, yeah?”

“Lou.” Harry smiles ruefully, eyebrows knitting together once he sees Louis shake his head defiantly. Harry feels horrible, _terrible_ – he doesn’t think he wants to do anything other than be by Louis’ side. “Louis, everything’s fine,” he murmurs, reaching out, his fingers inching along into Louis’ left palm and holding it gently. “I’ll be back. That’s what I always do. As soon as I can, I’m going to find you, I promise. It’ll only be a couple of hours if anything, yeah? It won’t be too late then, and I’ll hide as many times as you want.”

“Just _stay_ , Harry.” This time, Louis’ tone is irritable, disappointed, and he frowns, his lips pouting out. The tips of his ears slowly flush, and Harry wants to tuck his hair back, wants to cause his entire face to redden with just a look, wants to kiss his flaming face. “I don’t get it. Just stay with me. I want to- I wanna–”

“I’ll come find you, Louis,” Harry murmurs firmly, refusing to let Louis win, and for good measure, he drags Louis in close and kisses his downy hair, his heart breaking as he feels Louis sigh against his throat. Louis _nuzzles into him_ , dammit, presses his nose against his jaw, and Harry cannot help but to hug him closer, regardless of the small noise Louis makes as a response.

“I’ll wait for you,” Louis mutters when he pushes himself away, eyes back down at his feet, and Harry feels his skin crawl with the reminder that he has to _leave_ , as well as a new, pleasant feeling at the fact that Louis will be waiting for him when he does return. He places another soft kiss to Louis’ forehead before leaving, starting at hasty walk down the hall and turning to start up the staircase.

                                                                                                **//**

                The first hour Harry spends in his room is manageable, and as he sits at his window on the broken chair he has to balance on to keep from toppling over, he allows himself to get lost in the darkness, staring at the atmosphere as if he will be able to decipher every breath of wind in the sky, or every intricate snowflake on the ground. He wonders what everyone else in the mansion may be doing, perhaps settling in for the night or cleaning because it’s the only thing they’ve done for five years, although he knows that Louis is waiting for him, likely burning scrap pieces of paper in the fireplace and blowing out the flame before it reaches his dainty fingertips.

To entertain both himself and the idea that he can make it an hour or two without needing to laugh, grin, _melt_ over this beautiful boy, he tries not to think about Louis, focusing on anything and everything else under the silver moon. No matter what he thinks about, though, his thoughts always drift back onto Louis, and the early night cannot begin to compare to the way his eyes sparkle after one sip too much of the wine that’s kept for special occasions in the back of the vegetable pantry. Louis doesn’t drink, is the thing, he had said so three nights ago as he had stared into his glass with a shy smirk, and that is what makes it even more beautiful: it had been created on accident.

Aching desire stacks itself in the chambers of Harry’s heart, and not all of it is for the need Harry has towards gripping Louis close and kissing him deeply; not all of it is for possessing Louis and calling him his own. He misses Louis, and it is as simple as that. As badly as he wants this boy to fall in love with him, he knows that doing so will require all of his time, and Harry is running out of that, for he is a beast for the majority of the day and night. He wants to be loved so badly that the thought is a heavy haze in his brain, and he wants to love even harder, but he knows that anything Louis feels towards him now will not be the case the minute he sees how he is again. Their first scary couple days together is a perfect example of something Harry wants to have never happened: minus Louis’ actually arrival to the castle, Harry wants it all away.

As soon as the clock chimes nine rings, Harry begins to panic, knowing that it has been three hours and that he has never had to wait this long before. In the previous years, and every day before a few weeks ago, he has been given four or five hours of freedom a day. However, recently, that has dwindled down to an occasional four. Although Harry refuses to look at the rose that declares his destiny, he knows that the petals are falling and that every day without love hurts him. In the final days of the rose’s life, he will have one hour of looking normal, if that.

At ten o’clock, Harry becomes anxiously itchy, carding his fingers through his hair enough times to yank it free of his scalp. Everything reminds him of Louis now, whether it be the dumb dog Louis had found that always runs off but comes back for food, who is barking annoyingly outside, or the rattling reminder of thunder in the distance.

Every ring that sounds at eleven o’clock falls alongside the sound that Harry’s fist makes against his wall, and with his hair in his face, he tears apart his room, ripping his heavy window drapes down to the floor. The room spins, and everything is buzzing as anger possesses him. He’s just short of screaming come midnight, frustrated by the feelings overtaking his heart. He would not have thought that falling in love would be so torturous, how such a small pocket of time could possibly contain such enormity. He is not even sure if that is what this is – if he is really, genuinely, spiraling into blue- and pink- tinted love with Louis. However, if the blue is the same shade of Louis’ irises, and if the pink is the same pink that drenches Louis’ lips when he bites them through a smile, then Harry wants to keep free-falling.

One o’clock brings sore knuckles as Harry continues to wreck his room, and he shoves things out of the way, tearing apart his bed because it is not like he gets good sleep nowadays. Two o’clock comes with exhaustion, and he sinks down onto the floor, his head in his hands as the colors of the room stop being so ugly and red.

Three o’clock in the morning mocks him, and he is on the verge of drifting off when he feels it, feels the break he’s been waiting for. He is on his feet and tripping out of the room before his hair is short and clean, before his teeth are completely human, before his breath is back to normal. He runs down the hallway at a sprint, stumbling to a stop at all the places Louis could be, his heart giving off a rapid beat, thumping quicker with each step he takes.

Louis’ bedroom is the very last place Harry looks, and he briefly wonders why this hadn’t been his first stop, since it is so early in the morning. Harry spends half a minute at Louis’ door, butterflies fluttering all the way up in his throat as he gazes through the foot and a half of space that the door is cracked by. He straightens out his hair and presses out his clothes and even checks his breath, unafraid of getting close to Louis – record-breaking, _sensually_ close, is what he yearns for - and not wanting to smell bad.

“Louis?” Harry murmurs in a three a.m. whisper, pushing open Louis’ bedroom door with his fingertips and awkwardly stepping in. A soft flame flickers beside Louis’ bed, and candlelight illuminates the room in a romantic glow. Dozens of books are neatly placed against the right side of the bedroom, and Harry smiles softly, knowing that all of them have been started, having been taken out of the library in bunches at a time. When Harry gazes to the bed, he sees Louis lying on his belly, his head tilted to the side and resting on an open book, his red lips parted slightly as he sleeps on the old pages. His bed sheets are strewn only along his hips, stopping at his bare, lower back, and when Harry crosses the room to him, he sees gooseflesh risen on his skin, and it is tempting for Harry to kiss over every inch of his back, to kiss him until Louis is warm positively everywhere.

When Harry grasps the book to slide out it from underneath Louis’ head, the boy stirs, licking his lips as his eyelids flit. He grunts and opens his eyes lazily, his irises a hazy blue. When he sees Harry, he sniffs in acknowledgement, smiling sweetly. “Haz,” he mutters, yawning, “hi. I was waiting for you.”

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Harry says calmly, removing his hands from the book and instead scrambling to get a chair, sliding it up in front of Louis’ bed. He takes a seat, leaning forward and touching Louis’ cheek. The young man’s eyelids flutter, his eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. “And I’m sorry you had to wait so long. I don’t know what happened. Do- do you want to go to sleep? I can leave you be.”

“No, I want to talk to you.” Louis sighs, blinking slowly. He offers Harry a soft smile and Harry cannot help it; he allows his hand to run along Louis’ face to get to the back of his neck, slowly trailing down to run over the gooseflesh along his pale back. When he is at the base of Louis’ spine, his head swirls as he grabs the blanket, pulling it up towards his shoulders. “Thank you,” Louis says, and a gasp is wedged somewhere between his words, for Harry can hear it. It’s soft, and it’s innocent, and that’s what tears Harry apart. “I was cold.”

“I noticed.”

A small noise leaves Louis’ throat as he flips around onto his back, and during the slow transition, Harry takes the opportunity to take the book from where it had been underneath Louis’ head, pulling down the corner of the page so the place is not lost. He takes the time to set it aside, and when he lifts his head to look Louis once more, the lad is sprawled out along the mattress, his arm strewn over his eyes. The blankets are down by his navel again, his paling skin appearing golden due to the candlestick. Harry takes longer than necessary to drag his eyes across Louis’ body, taking note of the skin that stretches along his ribs, his two tiny, dark nipples, and even the minute tufts of fuzz underneath his arms.

“You’re so lovely, Louis,” Harry murmurs in response to the smooth, soft-looking body tangled halfway within the covers, balling his fists in order to keep his hands to himself. He needs to be gentle with Louis, something he is slightly unfamiliar with; he doesn’t want to hurt the boy. He wants to avoid that more than he wants to bruise him up with his mouth and then care for him later. “You’re so gorgeous.” He adds; the words leave his mouth and he’s got no filter. “Gorgeous and _sleepy_.”

Louis snorts, and it’s actually a little gross, but the way he peeks out from underneath his arm to sluggishly smile at Harry makes it endearing. “Dunno what you’re talkin’ about, you silly imp,” he slurs. He sighs. “M’not gorgeous at all; I’m positively average.”

Harry simply smiles tenderly to that, because Louis does not know the half of it; he does not know how bright he makes Harry’s world. Louis gazes at him before disappearing back underneath his arm, his visual direction settling on the high ceiling. The atmosphere falls into a peaceful sort of quietness, and Harry is perfectly content with watching Louis’ chest rise and fall. Seconds pass, and then minutes, and then Harry is sleepy himself, his own, secret masterpiece of a boy becoming a blur as his eyes start to close.

“Louis? Dear?” Harry says warmly, rolling his shoulders as he blinks away his exhaustion. He leans over to peer at Louis, who has not moved from his position of facing the ceiling, and he looks so…open, open and ready, and Harry wants to _take_ him until the boy sees nothing but Harry and the stars.

Louis sighs softly as a response, kicking his legs out slowly, and Harry knows he is hovering on a thin line between consciousness and sleep; he takes it as his cue to leave. He stands up, places his chair back in the corner of the room, and tucks Louis in, placing his wandering arm underneath the bed sheets before kissing his cheek, shortly and sweetly.

Before he can take three tired, dragging steps to the opposite side of the bed so he can blow out the candle, Louis moans out particularly appealingly, beckoning him back with a gentle, sleepy, “wait, c’mere.”

“Go to sleep, Louis,” Harry chuckles, but he is more than happy to oblige, rubbing his eyes as he trudges back to Louis’ bed.  He places his hand beside Louis’ head as he leans down, his arm shaking as he supports himself. “What? Do you need something?”

“Kiss me again, my face.”

It’s an odd request, and Harry is about to dismiss it as Louis’ sleep-talking before he has the chance to lose control, cave, and do something incredibly inappropriate, but then Louis’ eyes flutter open, wide and glazed, and Harry _has to_. So he leans down, and Louis turns his head to the cheek he desires approximately two seconds before Harry kisses it delicately, feeling the vibration of Louis’ appreciative hum underneath his lips.

“Again,” Louis says wistfully. Harry pulls away to gape at him, and Louis smiles shyly, closing his eyes again. His hand lifts and then fingertips are grazing the nape of his neck, nails scratching into his hair, leaving Harry to shiver. “Please? It’s like a _fairytale_ , Harry, kiss me one more time.”

“One more,” Harry grits out, every single nerve buzzing, and he places a kiss on the tip of Louis’ nose, breathing in Louis’ sweet exhale as he draws away for the final time. Louis thanks him in that three a.m. whisper, curling up on his side as his fingers slide away. “Goodnight, Louis,” Harry smiles, pushing Louis’ hair from his eyes.

“’Night, Haz. I’ll see you around.”

Harry hums, blowing out the candle and bathing the room in darkness. He closes the drapes so the sun will not wake Louis when it rises and then leaves, his brain a muddled swirl of blue and pink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! (: xx.


	10. IX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dears! My deepest apologies for taking so long to update; there has been a lot of schoolwork and stress getting in my way. Regardless, I am going to try harder to write and get updates in, and until then, I would like to give you just chapter! Enjoy! Sorry it's a bit scattered, but it shouldn't be too hard to follow! c: x.

                “ _’…when he shall die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of Heaven so fine…’_ ,” Louis reads, his fingers pressing out the book pages as his head hangs down, his mouth fitting easily over each word. Harry is entranced, to say the least; while it is no surprise that Louis possess the ability to cause Harry to forget everything in the world _but_ him, it still feels as if he is stuck and will never find his way out. He wishes Louis would lift his head so he could see his face, but instead, his hair shields it, long and unrelenting. It has grown out much longer within the time he has been at the mansion, and it now hangs down by the base of his neck, wavy and soft.

Today, February seventh, marks an exact month that Louis has been in the castle. Regardless of having woken up with a quivering belly and the urge to _celebrate_ , Harry had simply waited patiently for his hour, and once it had arrived, he’d rushed to find Louis, sweeping him up in a strong hug and dragging him away from the kitchen, where he had been cutting fruit. That morning, after a brief scolding that Louis was _peacefully busy with constructing his breakfast_ , Louis had hopefully suggested that they go outside, where yet another sheet of snow had blanketed the town. When Harry’s hour was up, Louis had delivered a sweet kiss to his jaw, waving a sad goodbye.

Six days before that, on Harry’s twenty-forth birthday, another petal dropped from the shriveling rose, which was a disaster in itself. His birthday has not been a big deal in five years, not since his family left, but a small cake had been baked by the staff and given to him after dinner. Louis had not known of the birthday until Louise brought the cake out, and after a rant about how Harry should have told him, with a meek, embarrassed ‘Happy Birthday’, he had smiled and said that he would know for next year, would give him a proper party.

The fact that Louis was finding time for Harry next year had Harry thinking about the year after that, and the one after that, as well as every year until all the stars in the sky died out. He had wondered if Louis knew that he had been proposing that he was going to stay around – he still does wonder; in fact, it has kept him up for six nights straight. The way Louis had smiled at him suggests that he had known exactly what he’d been doing, however, and Harry would be daft to not trust that.

Now, Louis has that content, little grin as he looks up, meeting Harry’s gaze. “You’re not paying attention to me,” he chastises, his forefinger extending to mark his spot at the bottom of the page. Slowly, his smile stretches wider until Harry can see his canines. “You’re just _staring_. Do you have me read just so you can stare at me without me noticing?”

“I’m staring because you’re pretty,” Harry murmurs simply. _Like a princess_ , he thinks additionally, _or a prince_ ; he knows Louis is particularly fond of them. Why shouldn’t he be, when he is nothing short of a delicate royal himself? “Not because you’re reading. I stare at you when you’re doing other things, too. And your voice is nice, so that’s also why I have you read.”

“Thanks, H,” Louis says with a flush and an acquitted little bat of his eyelashes, looking back down at the book. “Well, um…did you at least hear me when they kissed? That’s my favorite part. It’s romantic, and I wanted you to hear it.”

Truth be told, Harry had paid attention to all of it, down to Louis’ little swallow or lick of his lips every other time he finished a sentence. He’s right next to the lad on the family room couch, so he can’t _not_ pay attention, slouching while in contrast, Louis sits up straight like he’s got a plank of wood roped to his back. “Of course I did,” he says superiorly. “You read the kissing part exceptionably well. It is as if you’ve actually been kissed.”

“My first kiss is going to be like the kiss in every book I’ve read, and a lot like this one,” Louis says confidently while albeit a little quietly, looking back down at the book. Harry cannot see his face, but the tips of his ears that poke from between strands of his hair indicate his ferocious blush. “It’ll be short, but sweet. And I’ll feel everything that these women feel, you know?”

Harry hums and sits up a little straighter, turning his body to face Louis. He tugs his legs up onto the couch, wrapping his arms around them. “And you’ve _never_ been kissed?” he asks gravely. He finds it awfully unbelievable how no one has stolen such a precious thing from this precious boy. “Are you _sure_? Not even when you were little?”

Louis is silent for a moment. “Are you looking to _embarrass_ me, or something?” he then asks in an astonished, wavering tone. His head lifts, and Harry finds widened eyes and frowning lips. His cheeks are as red as his mouth, admittedly, and Harry wants to kiss it all. Louis shakes his head in disapproval as Harry does in apology, combing his hair out of his eyes with his small fingers. “I’ve not been kissed,” Louis clarifies, “and I’m just fine with that. I mean, sure, I’d definitely _like_ to be kissed, but it’s not like I’m desperate enough to- I mean- I just think it’s _special_ , a first kiss. I want it to be right.” Louis’ nervous spluttering comes to an abrupt stop, and his voice evens out as he asks, “Why does it matter? Have you been kissed?”

“I’ve been kissed, yes,” Harry says slowly, smiling just a little. Louis’ eyes drop to the soft white cushion between his legs. “Just when I was a little boy, though, and then a few more here and there; it’s nothing worth talking about.” Harry reaches out to pet at Louis’ leg, rubbing his kneecap. _Gentle, gentle_. “I’m just curious, Louis, I’m sorry. Here, tell me what you want in a first kiss. It’s probably lovely.”

Louis sighs for what seems to be a solid minute, and he closes his book, presenting Harry with a sheepish smile. While his eyes cannot stay on Harry for more than a moment without them nervously flitting to the floor, he still looks wonderfully excited, and Harry is more than happy to listen.

“Well, they always talks about the world stopping, like, afterwards or during,” he begins in a soft voice. “But I’ve always expected the exact opposite, like- an explosion of some sort. A complete explosion that’ll leave me breathless and- and dizzy. And he’ll feel ‘em, too, I want us both to feel them.” As Louis gets more comfortable talking, he begins to smile, waving his hands about as he explains his dream. He talks about how he wants to be held, exactly how he wants the kiss to pan out; Harry is taking notes, his entire being fluttering with the urge to be Louis’ first kiss.

“I feel really humiliated telling you this,” Louis squeaks out docilely, sweeping his hair away from his eyes with a quick bat of his hand. He is practically radiating heat, but his eyes are so bright, and Harry is slipping away from every ounce of self-control he’s got. His hands are sweating, and the room is diminishing so that he can only see Louis, the fitting, purple sweater he’s got on, and the white couch around them.

“Why?” Harry asks huskily, licking his lips. He stretches out his cramping legs, placing his feet flat on the couch, right by Louis’ thigh. “I think it’s cute. It’s romantic.”

“But it sounds like I’m some little child who has nothing better to do than to think about getting kissed,” Louis mumbles, shrugging his shoulders. He stares down hard at his arm, his wrist turned up as he fiddles with a loose string on his shirt. “Zayn would always tease me for it, and plus, I think–”

Harry stops him, reaching out and caressing the back of his neck softer than he pulls him into him, swallowing Louis’ small yelp of surprise with a gentle, solid kiss to his lips. It doesn’t last long at all – and, for the record, Harry isn’t doing anything other than pecking him. However, in just a couple of seconds, the world comes to an abrupt halt that has Harry’s stomach lurching. He wants to kiss Louis again, over and over until his lips numb and his jaw aches and it no longer feels like a kiss rather than the creation of a galaxy, but Louis scrambles away before the stars combust, his glorious, soft mouth parted and flushed.

“ _Harry_ ,” he gasps, reaching up to grab the hand that is cradling his neck, blunt nails teasing his wrist. He noticeably swallows, looking like he wants to speak, but to say what, Harry doesn’t know. He is red, impossibly so, and his lips open and close, and while Harry should be nervous about how Louis is feeling, _what_ he is feeling, he cannot help but to think about how he wants his lips to open and close around his own.

Harry does not have time to come up with something to say in response to Louis’ wild expression before Louis is kissing _him_ , leaning forward with graceful hesitance. His lips part with another gasp at the contact of their lips, and then Harry is gone, leading the boy through the kiss with gentle pecks and a soft tug of his head to bring him closer. Louis is shy to kiss him, Harry can sense it in the way he grips his wrist, the way his mouth freezes up every so often, but he still inches himself closer to Harry’s body, pressing forward with his free hand placed down on the couch.

Harry places his hand on Louis’ hip, and Louis places his own on Harry’s warming cheek, and it is by far the most riveting thing Harry has ever experienced. He is about to lay Louis down, right there on the couch, but just kissing him is enough, he decides as he slides his fingers across to Louis’ lower back, fisting the thick purple sweater. He tells himself again to be gentle, the word floating through his head around the vast space of nothing, but he can’t help but to take Louis’ lower lip between his own, pulling at it softly. With that, as well as a small whimper, Louis pulls himself away, jerking his hands back and closing them into tight fists.

“I- I should finish the act before you have to go,” Louis says in a rushed, high-pitched tone as he straightens himself up, opening his book and flipping wildly through the pages to find his spot. Harry only smiles, pressing his fingers to his mouth as his head floats. He has no doubt that Louis feels the same way, because he is feeling spacey over the fact that Louis looks to be that way.

_“…t-that all will be…be in love with night…_ ,” Louis reads choppily. He is smiling as he recites the words, and that warms Harry’s heart; his grin is stretched so wide, even as he tries to pull himself together. Perhaps he doesn’t want to smile, but he cannot help himself; he was just kissed for the very first time. Harry wonders how many other firsts he will be able to give Louis. He reaches out and takes his hand, a gesture of comfort, a reminder to _slow down, it’s alright_ , and Louis immediately laces their fingers, squeezing tightly. He still doesn’t look at him, but Harry sees him close his eyes tightly at the gesture. When he opens them, he reads again in a much frailer voice and an even bigger smile, _“…and pay no worship to the sun._ ”

When he is done reading, he closes the book as well as his eyes. His lips curve into his mouth before they part, and a single word leaves his lips, stronger than any of the thousands of words Louis has ever said to Harry before, has ever read to him flawlessly, without stuttering or mispronouncing:

“Boom.”

                                                                                                **//**

                It normally takes a lot of encouraging to get Harry outside in the cold weather, especially in the mornings, and Louis always feels a little silly whenever he has to beg him and tug him by the arm, whining in his ear and threatening to never _play_ with him again. Today, however, he finds Harry willing to do so, and as they sit outside, with Louis balancing on his heels and Harry on his knees across from him, the older man doesn’t look too bothered by the frigid air even as it reddens his nose and ears.

“You’re better at this than I am,” Harry murmurs thoughtfully, and he shifts uneasily on his knees, cupping his hands even closer together so that bird food does not trickle out of his palms. In front of him and Louis, birds teeter back and forth, pecking at the ground, seeking out the sesame seeds that are half-buried in the melting snow. They hang more towards Louis, and Louis knows that Harry realizes it.

“That’s only because I _always_ come outside to feed the birds, while you stay inside more,” Louis breathes, shaking some more seeds out into the snow from between his fingertips. The seven birds that flutter around the both of them chirp hesitantly, a few of them cautiously fluttering into Louis’ hand. Louis giggles and lays his palms out flat, shuffling forward and closer to Harry. “They’re used to me, I think,” he says, “but they’ll get used to you, too, if you come out with me more.”

“I don’t particularly like cold weather,” Harry muses in a bit of a childish grumble, and Louis raises his gaze to grin at him, his cheeks flushing as his lips part to speak:

“But you like me.”

Harry grunts, looks up, and presents Louis with half of a smile, his eyes bright as his head nods slowly. “Ah, I do,” he confirms, gazing back down into his hands. He doesn’t sound shy at all, but rather extraordinarily confident, and that causes Louis to shiver and squirm, how shameless he is. Louis isn’t able – wouldn’t ever be able – to say how he is beginning to feel about Harry in return; he is thoroughly confused by it, and albeit a little tentative. “And I like spending time with you. But these birds like you, too. Not more than me, but enough so that they only want to eat _your_ sesame seeds.”

“You like me more?” Louis shyly inquires, and he tries his hardest to sound casual, shifting on his cold feet and eventually settling cross-legged in the snow – he is antsy. Harry makes him antsy. He can feel Harry’s eyes on him as he feeds the birds, and slowly, the atmosphere grows warm. With the urge to fan his heating face, Louis looks up, a slightly annoyed breath leaving his lips. His eyes quickly go soft along with every other fiber in his being when he sees Harry gazing so gently back at him.

“More than a handful of birds?” Harry raises an eyebrow, his red lips curving up into a fond smile. Those are lips that Louis has touched – just yesterday – and he cannot help but to think that those _were_ in fact the very first lips to kiss his own. He especially can’t help his mind as it solidifies the fact that it had been such a lovely kiss. To make matters more confusing, a foreign thought in the back of his head suggests that he does not want to be kissed by anyone else. Before that can travel to the front of his brain, Harry speaks again. “Are you asking me if I like you more than a handful of blue jays that all look the same?”

“Well, I sound silly when you put it that way,” Louis sighs, ducking his head once more. He always feels like this around Harry; floaty and goofy, a little like he is spiraling out of control and is having a hard time planting his feet. He is not used to feeling lightheaded as a result of the simplest tease, or stare, or touch, from Harry – from _Harry_ – but he is going along with it. It is a nice feeling, one that causes his heart to bubble up in his chest, for himself to bury his face into his pillow and smile into it every single night. It is what he longs for, the feeling, and he gets it every time he catches Harry’s attention.

“That’s perfect, then, because you’re a silly boy,” Harry retaliates. The birds seem a little long-gone, now, and Louis certainly isn’t paying as much attention as he usually does, because his scarf now feels too warm around his neck and he would definitely like Harry closer to him. With a hitching breath, he brushes his hands off into the snow and then takes Harry’s wrists, spreading his cupped hands out further. He draws them closer towards the ground, and slowly, the birds begin to anxiously hop into his hands, eating directly out of them.

“I’m not a boy, _tout d’abord_ ,” Louis scolds, and as his thumbs rests in the junctions between Harry’s thumbs and forefingers, he realizes that he can’t feel any giddier than this, “I am twenty-one years old. Second of all, _you’re welcome_ – the birds will eat out of your hands now. You just had to let it happen, Haz, you couldn’t force it upon them. They won’t eat out of your hand if they feel forced. Be gentle and kind, and they’ll like you, too. And then they’ll love you so much that they will call their friends as soon as you step outside.”

Harry is silent for a very long time. Even when Louis looks up questionably, he doesn’t say a word; instead, he is watching _him_ , his eyebrows drawn in close, his teeth catching his bottom lip. Louis is unsure whether he is conflicted, entranced, or a mixture of both, but he entertains it by staring back for a minute or so, blushing profusely.

“What, am I being silly again?” he asks with a wary chuckle after a while, letting go of Harry’s hands to reposition his snowcap on his head. He grins. “Was it because I was talking about the birds? What was it that threw you off? It sounds like I’m some bird whisperer or something, I’m sure.”

“No, it wasn’t that.” Harry blinks and laughs, shaking his head. “It was, ah…” He hesitates for a long time again, and Louis’ patience winds down as he awaits his answer. “…what you called me. ‘Haz’, I like that.”

“But I’ve called you that before. _Haz_.”

“I know, but I never got to tell you that I like it.” Harry visibly swallows – stalling?  “I really like it.”

Louis snorts, rolls his eyes; the works. “You’re being silly now, Harry,” he chides, unable to help his giggling. Harry smiles again, their eye contact only breaking when Harry glances down at the birds in his hands. His teeth are almost, if not already, as white as the snow. Louis wants to be kissed again by him. He wants to feel those teeth, and his lips, and his hands on his hips, his waist, cradling the back of his head. He wants to be overwhelmingly crowded by him, pressed between spaces of his body. “You’re really silly,” Louis croaks out slowly, his mouth falling dry.

“Yeah,” Harry chuckles, and, very slowly, he removes his hands out from underneath the pair of birds that eat out of them. He brushes the seeds into the snow and rises to his feet, outstretching a hand for Louis. “Come on inside,” he says, batting snow off of his kneecaps with the hand that isn’t reached to Louis, “I don’t want you to freeze your lovely self.”

Louis knows what this really means: it is almost Harry’s time to leave. If Louis is lucky, he has fifteen minutes left, maybe twenty, with the only person he’s been around in more than a month. In twenty minutes, Harry will be gone, and Louis will be alone again, and _bored_ , lost without someone to guide him through each day within the castle. He nods despite this inevitable realization, though, and with a sinking stomach, he stands up, taking Harry’s cold hand in his own. “I’d like some more of the wine you said Niall has stashed,” he mutters decisively on the walk back to the castle, stomping through snow and leaving the birds behind. “Before you go. Let’s drink.”

“Are you sure?” Harry looks over and dips his head, nudging his nose against the top of Louis’ head. Louis can easily lift his own head up and catch Harry’s lips in a kiss; he has read a book where that had happened. He has read a lot of books involving a lot of different kisses, and Louis very much wants to recreate each one with Harry. “Remember when you told me you don’t drink?”

Louis inhales a sharp breath, nodding again. His heart thumps wildly in his chest, and he can feel it in his fingertips, beating around Harry’s hand. He cannot help how he is beating for Harry so quickly and hard. With a rueful smile, he looks up at Harry, giving a miniscule shrug of his shoulders. “I know. I just...I want to get a little drunk so I don’t miss you so much when you go.”

                                                                                                **//**

                “For the record, Louis,” Harry starts with a clear of his throat, and Louis stares at him with wide, hazy eyes, gripping onto his bicep as his other hand struggles to get his arm around his waist. Harry has to leave – the clock has chimed four o’clock and Harry is beginning his scheduled, hasty exit. Everything slurs together, though – Harry’s smell of wine, the heat of the fireplace from the other room, all melding together and creating a whirlwind of confusion – and Louis has definitely had a little too much to drink. He wants to ask Harry to stay like he does every single time, but this different, tipsy side of him _knows_ he is going to be broken by the answer. So he does not bother asking, and resorts to physically pulling Harry towards him, hoping that he will, for once, win. “Louis?” Harry asks unsurely as he backs away, like he does not know if Louis can hear him, and Louis presses closer, blinking slowly.

“What, Harry?” Louis whispers. He squints his eyes, and he can swear he sees sharp teeth when Harry bites his lip. But he sighs and shakes his head, because he is getting _drunk_ , and he is so _silly_. He is silly and _annoyed_ that Harry keeps leaving him. The universe is coming to a slow stop, and Louis is losing the one person he has left to revolve around. Louis is just fine revolving around Harry. “What is it?”

“I like you a lot more than the birds,” Harry croaks. He is able to gingerly pry Louis’ fingers off of him, raising his hands to his lips and kissing several of his fingertips and knuckles. Louis begins to spark, crackling and hissing through the air. “I just wanted to tell you that,” Harry mutters against Louis’ thumb. “I’m going to leave you now, Lou. I’ll fetch Liam so he can look after you.”

Louis is drunk. Harry is gone before he can even blink, and the sparks die out.

                                                                                                **//**

                Days turn into weeks, and weeks into months, and Harry has never been able to compare the changing weather to such a beautiful boy in his home before. The flowers that are beginning to bloom cannot compare to the gentle way Louis’ eyes open after a nap, and the brighter sun is no competition to how much of a glow Louis has midday, after a small lunch. It is getting warmer outside, but Louis still manages to make Harry feel as if there is some warmer season than summer, to cause him to burn so brightly that he cannot help but to share his heat with every touch he gives Louis, with every word that is whispered into his ear.

March days are warm, and Harry immediately learns that Louis likes to sit in the backyard and bask in a large sweater, his head tilted towards the sky as the birds sing. Harry can watch from his window when he is shut away, but when he has the opportunity, he sits outside with Louis, and they talk – they talk about the trees, the family Harry once had, as well as the family that Louis still speaks about in a small, casual whisper. They talk about Louis’ fairytales, and Harry even makes up his own stories for him, and the protagonist is always gorgeous, noble Prince Louis. Louis giggles, and he blushes, and his eyes squint up like rose buds like they do, and Harry falls, falls, falls.

Louis has become dependent on Harry; while the young man is still as feisty and confident as ever, completely able to sustain in the large mansion alone, he needs Harry for certain things that Harry finds hard to explain. Harry can feel it – it is a pull in his heart whenever Louis approaches him, and he can feel the breath of relief that is always released into Harry’s neck when Harry holds him close. Louis needs a _person_ ; he has lived in a village where everyone knew everyone his whole life, and Harry cannot hold him against his need. He is completely willing to give himself to Louis, and he knows that he will always get Louis in return. Harry does not believe that Louis has had anyone to romantically love, either, and he wants to do that for him, too.

The more flower petals that drop, the less time Harry has to spend with Louis. Harry sees him two times a day now, and Louis begins to get upset when he has to leave, pinching his eyes closed and turning away, hardly sparing a goodbye. Harry does not want to leave, but he is _scared_ : he and Louis have come so far in the past three months, and Harry thinks that the boy has forgotten what he had looked like those first three days he had witnessed him as a monster. He doesn’t want to take the chance of Louis being afraid of him again.

March nights are much cooler than day, so Harry can still hold Louis close in the evenings when he is around, and it is obvious that Louis accepts that full-heartedly, as they wrap around one another at the fire like the huge home is nothing but a small pocket of air. The staff stays away during these moments, because time is precious and Harry wants no distractions as he surrounds himself in Louis, touching, kissing, holding.  

As Louis sits in his lap, all hitching breaths and tickling, silent giggles as he presses his nose against Harry’s collarbone, Harry trickles his fingers along Louis’ hips, his thumbs holding up the thin blue nightshirt that he especially loves. He is wearing cotton shorts underneath, and Harry doesn’t dare fiddle with those, knowing he’d completely lose every ounce of self-control he has gained while around Louis. He touches at Louis’ waist and the thin folds his belly creates as he sits in a slouch, and as he does so, his cheek rests atop Louis’ head, breathing in his clean hair.

“What time is it?” Louis asks in a hoarse whisper against Harry’s jugular, and he forces himself closer, his small palms curling around the front of Harry’s shirt as he squirms. He is so gloriously needy and deliciously inexperienced, and Harry cannot help but to encourage it, grabbing the backs of Louis’ thighs and pulling him further along his lap. They are then pressed chest to chest, with Louis’ knees tightly bracketing Harry’s hips, and it is awfully intimate and new for the both of them. Harry can certainly take Louis at this point, can love him physically rather than in his head, and all he needs to do is shift his weight and set the boy gently onto the carpet underneath them. “Harry, what time is it?” Louis repeats more firmly, his worry-filled tone luring Harry out of his thoughts. “You’re not answering me. You have to–”

Harry stretches his hand across the span of Louis’ smooth, pale back, shushing him with a rumbling hum that is down low in his throat. His other arm tightens around Louis’ waist, securing him. “It’s half-past,” he says soothingly, “Louis, dear, it’s only half-past.”

The rate that Louis settles down at is astonishing. “Okay.”

“Are you alright, Lou?” Harry asks slowly, and Louis raises his head for the first time since he’s been resting in Harry’s lap, meeting Harry’s eyes with his own. The blue is so clear, and hints of the fire five feet away flicker behind them, extinguishing when he blinks only to alight again when he reopens them. His lips are cherry-red, a color that they have always been lately, a color that Harry wants to kiss away like how the sun kisses away the snow on a warm day.

“I’m fine,” Louis responds, and he smiles some; it shows no teeth, but Harry is glad for that. The night is calm, and this toothless smile means that Louis is calm, too. Even the shadows that lurk along the walls are tranquil, hiding behind paintings and drapes. “It’s just late. I feel a little weird.”

“Do you feel ill?” Harry narrows his eyes, tipping Louis’ chin with his thumb and forefinger up so he can see his face clearly. If anything, Louis just looks a little sleepy. He shakes his head, and Harry nods, brushing his thumb along his lower lip before releasing him. “Well, shall I take you to bed?” he suggests next. “I can lie with you until you fall asleep, or- or until I’ve to go, if you’d like.”

“No,” Louis sighs, and he lowers his head again, fitting it into Harry’s neck once more. Harry begins to think that this is where it belongs. All of Louis belongs with him, wrapped around his own mind and then fuzzy warm around his body. “I’d like to stay right here. I can stay awake.”

“Alright, Louis,” Harry whispers into the night, and he continues touching as Louis falls silent, tracing his fingers up and down Louis’ spine before caressing his front, even toying with his two little nipples with the pads of his thumbs until Louis pushes him away with a strained and meek ‘ _ah_ ’, giggling. He squeezes Louis’ hips and prods gently at the delicate skin of the tops of his thighs, familiarizing himself for the first time with just what softness and sensitivity that this boy is made of. Louis is pliant in front of him, his hands sandwiched between both of their chests, and the night remains still. He is gentle, so, so gentle, just for Louis, just for his boy.

When the grandfather clock chimes one loud, rumbling ring, Harry’s time is up. He taps Louis’ knee only to find that the young man is peacefully asleep, breathing slow, heavy breaths into his neck. Harry picks him up and carries him as swiftly and safely as possible down the hall and to his bedroom, laying him down and tucking him in with ease. By the time he blows out the lone candle sitting in his the corner of the room and closes the blinds, he is no longer _Haz_ or the fun squeal of _Harry_ that Louis calls him when he is giggling and when Harry is falling, but instead he is the monster he’s tried so hard to avoid, bigger, scarier. He stares down at Louis as he sleeps, willing himself not to touch, not to brush Louis’ chestnut hair out of his closed eyes. If Louis were to accidentally wake up and see him, he’d likely scream, and with that thought, Harry quickly exits, closing the door behind him.

He misses him all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think, yeah? Comments and kudos are much appreciated! Much love xx.


	11. X.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here we go! I'm very very nervous about what you guys will think of this chapter...! It's very long, probably my longest yet, and I greatly apologize for my lack of updating; lots of stuff have been going on lately, as you probably know and understand. However, spring break is in a week for me and I really do hope to get some more writing done! I hope you enjoy the chapter... It's quite interesting, heh... *covers eyes*

                The first thing that Harry hears when he steps out of his bedroom the following evening is music, and he is completely thrown off, for he has not heard anything except for Louis’ singing in five years. He pursues the sound with fingers that are itching to be touching Louis, for this is the first time he has been out of his room all day. It is only nine o’clock, so the night is relatively young, and he is ready to spend it with his boy.

When Harry approaches the door that withholds the music, and when he opens it quietly, he isn’t surprised to see that the culprit is Louis, dancing around the empty space while Niall and Liam teeter back and forth down towards the ground.

The mansion has a lot of empty, untouched rooms within it, and this one is clearly one of them; there isn’t anything but a nightstand occupying it, and that is sitting in the corner of the room, wielding several large, scented candles that are pushed closely together. Three feet to the left of the nightstand is a piano that Harry is not sure he’s seen before, and it is playing on its own, its black and white keys pressing down without any touch and creating a melody. It plays a cheery tune, and it brings a smile onto Harry’s face as he gazes at Louis, closing the door behind him.

Niall sees him first. He waves one flame-ridden hand and takes Liam by the arm, quietly pulling him closer to Harry as Louis remains inattentive, bouncing on the balls of his feet in an odd sort of dance as he examines the piano, touching it gently. He looks incredibly soft with his long hair tied back and his red sweater and white pants, and Harry can’t wait to touch.

“Hello, Niall,” Harry smiles, “Liam.” He nods his head in Louis’ direction, and he smiles even wider with just the glance, crossing his arms over his chest in satisfaction. He’d picked the perfect boy to lose his mind for. “How long has he been at it?”

“Not but an hour,” Liam responds, his head tilted far back as he stares up at Harry. “He was being nosy, I suppose, and stumbled upon the piano in one of the storage rooms. He insisted that it was moved so he’d be able to listen to it play. He’s eaten already, so.”

Harry hums, listening as the song changes into something more soothing with just a simple suggestion from Louis’ murmuring voice. “Thank you for accompanying him,” he says genuinely, and that is all he _needs_ to say; with a sly smirk, Niall hauls Liam out of the room, and the door swiftly clicks shut. Harry clears his throat and takes a step forward, rubbing the palms of his hands against the sides of his legs in anticipation. “Good evening, Louis.” he calls over the music.

“Harry!” In three short seconds, Louis turns around, sparks like a flame, and shuffles quickly towards Harry, smiling as he throws his arms around his neck. Harry holds him back without hesitation, winding his arms tightly around Louis’ waist as he kisses down his jaw and presses his face into his neck. “Hello, Harry,” Louis giggles, drawing himself away and grasping Harry’s hands. “I’m so happy you’re here. I was wondering when you would finally come.”

“Here I am,” he says with a tight grin, choosing not to mention that it is nine in the night and this is his very first time out. Louis doesn’t bring it up, nor does he even look to be thinking about it, smiling at him instead. Harry decides that it is no longer a concern if Louis isn’t worried over it. “What did you do today?”

“I helped Louise clean up the house some after breakfast,” Louis explains, tugging Harry towards the piano, “and then I’ve been doing what I always do when I wait for you; I finished two more books I’d been reading and prepared my dinner. But I found this piano a little while ago after I finished eating, and I made Niall and Liam help me bring it in here. It plays all by itself, look.”

Slowly, Harry coils his arms around Louis again as he looks at the piano, humming in acknowledgement. “I think my mother brought this home once when I was really little,” he recalls vaguely, narrowing his eyes. These have always been memories he strove to forget; pulling them to the front of his mind is a bit of a struggle. “And she had no idea how to play, and my sister was just about to leave the country for boarding school, so she didn’t have time to play. I certainly didn’t want to play, so I guess we forgot about it.”

“That’s a shame.” Louis looks to Harry with a brief pout, but when Harry makes a face back, he grins, placing his small hands on Harry’s chest and patting at it. “Well, would you like to dance with me?” he asks softly, biting his lip. “It’ll be fun.”

“Oh, I can’t dance, little one,” Harry frowns, shifting his feet uncomfortably. Never has he danced before, and he certainly knows he lacks both the patience and grace for it. As if this is not an issue, Louis laughs gently and takes a step back, shaking his head.

“It’s alright. I’ll show you how. I used to dance with my sisters all the time. Mum would sing to us, but I have a feeling that the piano will sound even lovelier.” Louis presses his shirt out with his palms before looking to the piano again and saying with a gentle smile, “can you play something slow, please?”

As the song changes to the requested languid tune, Louis steps forward, his eyes a glistening blue as he takes Harry’s hands. “Alright, one goes here,” he says in a wavering voice that is pitched lower than a whisper, and he places Harry’s left hand on his left hip. Harry quickly nods, his fingertips curving around the joint, and he sees Louis swallow, his eyelids fluttering. He wants to smile, wants to smirk because he has rendered Louis speechless again, but he cannot do anything but stare, watching the beautiful young man. He is speechless himself. “And this hand holds onto my right hand,” Louis instructs next, and he slips his palm into Harry’s, his fingers cold. “My other hand goes right here.”

Louis places his hand on Harry’s left shoulder, his thumb resting against the pulse on his neck. At the contact, Harry pulls Louis in closer, his lips at his ear. He just wants to kiss Louis, starting with the spot right _below_ his ear; he wants to start the process of making Louis completely his. “And then what?” he asks sweetly, closing his eyes. “Just tell me what to do.”

“All you do is step backwards, and I’ll follow you, and we just follow one another,” Louis breathes, and his head settles against Harry’s chest, over his own hand. “And you can’t talk, that’s one of the rules. Not talking makes it more romantic.”

Harry chuckles lowly and takes a step back, and in retaliation, Louis steps forward, tucking his head underneath Harry’s chin. Harry is nervous as he steps back and forth, back and forth, and he begins to contemplate whether or not this is really considered dancing, but it is lovely nonetheless. Louis is soft and warm like he always is when he is with him, following every step with his own small one, and he knows that he could do this with Louis for ages, without any doubt.

“You’ve never danced with Zayn like this, have you?” he whispers after several minutes, unable to help the question, and he steps on Louis’ foot because of this distracting thought, apologizing quickly soon after. Louis does nothing more but giggle and produce a small ‘ _ow_ ’, squeezing his shoulder.

“No talking, I said,” he murmurs. He takes a few more steps along with Harry, fitting into his body nicely, swaying along with him. “But no, I haven’t,” he admits. “I haven’t danced with anyone but my sisters. I wouldn’t ever dance with Zayn, if that makes you feel any better. He probably smells like beer and blood. Now don’t talk any more. You’re disrupting the music and I just want to think about you.”

Harry nods his head, smiling against Louis’ temple, and he quiets down like it had been suggested, drawing Louis in closer once again as he moves. He manages to step on Louis’ socked toes a couple more times, and with each apology, Louis presses in more, his gentle laughing getting lost against Harry’s skin. He wants to move quicker – this is a little too slow, but he tries to be patient, finding it easy after several more minutes pass. He gently kisses Louis; his head, his cheek, his noise – he avoids his lips because he enjoys feeling Louis’ breath in his own space. Louis does nothing but tangle the fingers of one hand in Harry’s hair, sighing gently.

“Harry, do you think you could do something for me?” he asks weakly after a kiss to his forehead, and Harry nods eagerly; he is willing to do anything for Louis at this point. He feels a heavy breath release against his chin, one of nervousness, and Harry wishes he could pull Louis closer, but he cannot without suffocating the boy. “Could you please stay tonight? I don’t want you to go. I don’t know what to do with myself when you go.”

“Louis,” Harry says tenderly, rubbing up and down Louis’ side with his thumb. He contemplates it for a long while, panic bubbling up in his chest before simmering, only to quickly rise again. He doesn’t want Louis to be afraid of him like he was before. He wants Louis to fall in love with this better side of him, so he will be able to eventually be everything Louis wants without ever having to leave. He begs that Louis will eventually forget the question after dancing for a few minutes, but no longer than a minute later, Louis squeezes Harry’s hand insistently, speaking up once more and sounding unwilling to give up:

“Please stay with me when the hour’s up. I don’t care what happens when it is. But I- I miss you a lot when you leave, and I don’t know why it always hurts so much, because I know you’ll always come back, but I want to stay with you.” Louis’ voice begins to break up, breathing in slow, wavering breaths. “Please stay.”

“Okay,” Harry rasps, nodding his head. He says it before he can say no; he doesn’t want to upset Louis and ruin the atmosphere. He has half of an hour left, anyway, give or take. “I’ll stay. I promise I will.” He rests his head atop Louis’, his hair soft and tickling against his cheek “Dance with me more now, okay? I don’t want to stop dancing. I don’t ever want to stop dancing with you.”

Louis breathes out a relieved sigh. “I don’t, either.”

Harry takes a step back, and Louis follows, and they begin again, but this time, Harry is afraid, clumsier than ever. Louis helps him, though, with kind whispers and helpful corrections, and when Harry spins him once, he laughs so loudly, wrapping both arms around his neck when they connect again and swaying graciously to the side. Harry takes great, awkward steps and pulls Louis along, and soon he is laughing, too.  The candles in the corner of the room flicker and fill the air with sage, lavender, and rosemary, but Louis’ own scent is intoxicating.

The grandfather clock rings too soon for Harry’s liking, and on the tenth ring, Louis pulls away uneasily, looking up at him with raised brows and soft eyes. He holds Harry’s hands, their fingers lacing together, and Harry squeezes them hard, his stomach twisting up horribly. He frowns at Louis as he feels it happening, but Louis only smiles his toothless smile and mouths a genuine ‘ _thank you_.’

Harry’s hair changes. It grows as long and mangy as always, and he feels his teeth sharpen as he chews at the inside of his cheek. His face is stretched uncomfortably wide at the scars that have unknowingly appeared. He feels bigger and terrifying, and slowly, he watches Louis’ smile fall and his lips press into a straight line, and he wonders what finally does it; how he looks practically inhuman, or perhaps how Harry’s hand is no longer smooth and gentle in his own. Afterwards, when there is no longer an echo from the clock, Harry hangs his head, closing his eyes. 

“You’re afraid,” he mutters angrily after a few speechless moments, pushing a hand through his hair and gripping at it harshly. “I told you that you wouldn’t want to see me like this, Louis. I told you, but you _insisted_ that I do this. Are you happy?” He looks up, eyes narrowed, and finds Louis’ mouth ajar, wringing his hands together. Harry feels a growl start up in the back of his throat at Louis’ lack of an answer. “Do you want me to _leave_?”

“No, Harry, I–” Louis stammers. He licks his lips, shaking his head hurriedly. He steps forward, and his fingers are icy and shaking as he wraps them around Harry’s neck again, his eyes steady on Harry’s own. He is wary, Harry can feel it in the air, but regardless, he is happy that Louis does not resent him. Louis blinks and stares for a moment before swallowing. “Don’t be mad, Harry, I don’t think you’re scary. I still don’t want you to go anywhere.”

“You don’t?” Harry asks, his voice gruff and low. Louis shakes his head again, mustering up a partial smile. Harry feels as if he is able to breathe again. He cautiously holds Louis around the waist once more, not wanting to hurt him since it is so easy for him to do now that he is his beast. His larger hands fit oddly in the curves and crevices of Louis’ torso now, but he wants to make it work.

“Your eyes are still really beautiful to me,” Louis declares with a shrug of one of his shoulders. He sucks in a breath and holds it before releasing it with a nervous giggle. “You’re just handsome in a different way now. I still like you.”

Harry chuckles breathlessly and quickly draws Louis up close to kiss his lips, entirely unable to help himself. He can feel Louis’ small smile against his fingers as he holds his face, coaxing him gently with each small kiss to his mouth.  Louis makes the quietest of noises as he fervently kisses back, something that he is still incredibly new with, his lips still pausing in confusion. He makes sounds that are caught between startled gasps and insistent whines, and Harry tears his mouth away, hissing out a soothing shush as he and Louis breathe in the same air.

“It’s still me, Louis,” he grunts out, and it is both Louis’ reminder and his own. It is harder to be gentle now, when all he wants to do is ravish Louis; love him, take him, own him. He wants to remain the Harry that Louis has gotten to know within two months. “You’re okay.” He kisses Louis softly again, brushing the apples of his cheeks with his thumbs, and when he settles back once more, he clears his throat, taking in the look Louis gives him. “I’d like to make love to you,” he says slowly, his heart beating, beating; he wonders if Louis’ heart beat is as quick as his own. “Will you let me do that?”

Louis squeaks and closes his eyes, and Harry kisses him once again very delicately. By the time he has broken away, Louis’ eyes are open, wide and glazed over. He nods his head. His mouth forms around an answer, but all he can get out is ‘ _ye–_ ‘, for Harry kisses him again, and he doesn’t stop.

                                                                                                **//**

                Harry makes a point to just kiss Louis for a while, wanting to wait until the man’s fast grip on the back of his neck loosens and he becomes less tense. Every nerve within him is buzzing with the struggle of fighting the urge to move quickly and just _take_ Louis; he wants to do this properly, wants Louis completely ready for him. Minutes pass where Harry simply holds Louis flush to him, kissing him, fingertips trailing gently along the warm fabric covering Louis’ back. Louis fits easily against him, raised just slightly on the tops of his toes.

“Uh- Harry,” Louis pants against Harry’s mouth, and Harry takes the opportunity to lick Louis’ lower lip once, grunting out an ‘ _mmm?_ ’ in answering. Slowly, Louis’ hands trickle down to hold Harry’s sides, gripping his shirt. He sluggishly turns his face away to nose at Harry’s cheek, his breath hot beside his ear. “I’m nervous,” he says in a whisper. His voice wavers, and Harry’s mind clouds over with the thought of it being rough and broken and used. “I’m going to mess up. I’ve never done this before.”

“I’ll take care of you,” Harry says – it is his promise from before, his silent one to Louis’ mother, and he is not willing to break it even as he takes one of the last precious things Louis has had to himself. He pulls away to smile, and Louis blinks up at him, eyes searching every bit of his face. Harry swallows under his gaze, exhaling a breath that calms him down. He takes Louis’ hand in his larger, clammy one and leads Louis out of the room, and as they retreat, the piano’s music fades, sensing their exit. “How about you think about something nice?” he suggests lowly, suddenly turning and bracketing Louis in against the wall directly beside the bedroom door. With his hands on his hips, Harry kisses Louis again, licking into his mouth when Louis gasps. “While you do that, I’ll take care of you.”

“You’re nice, so I’ll think about you,” Louis giggles, and Harry cannot help but to growl playfully as he bites at Louis’ lip, silencing the young man after an ‘ _oh_ ’ and a subtle squirm against the wall. Harry thumbs at the waistband of Louis’ pants – _he_ _will get there_ – before curling his fingers around the hem of his sweater, smacking quick, tender kisses to Louis’ sweet mouth while he draws it up over his head.

Louis arches up against him and his arms extend into the air as the heavy sweater is pulled off. He lowers them once the shirt is on the ground, and one hand squeezes Harry’ hip, the other winding around his neck as he draws Harry in for another kiss.

“You’re such a lovely boy,” Harry praises into Louis’ mouth before skimming his lips along his face until he is kissing Louis cheek, the skin hot and flushed under his lips. “All of you. My lovely boy. Mine.” He moves along Louis’ slack jaw and down the column of his throat, littering small bites along his collarbone and as far down onto his chest as he can manage without straining his neck. With one arm circled around Louis’ lower back, the hand of his other one brushes along his navel before settling over his crotch, curving his fingers around the fabric that withholds the start of Louis’ arousal.

Louis whines and digs his blunt fingernails into the nape of Harry’s neck, his own hips flexing against Harry’s palm. Harry smirks and fits his fingers more firmly around Louis’ hardening cock, listening to him stutter. “I’m not a boy, I am twenty-one,” he finally mumbles, sounding winded, and Harry snorts with an extraordinary amount of fond, retracting his hand only to cradle the back of Louis’ head with it whilst kissing him again. He pulls Louis off of the wall and walks him to the room he knows best, his own, and blindly pushes the door open, bending down to pick Louis up as he steps through dismantled pieces of his dresser and glass.

“This is your room. You’re finally letting me in,” Louis observes in a sultry tone that he may or may not have meant, and Harry groans as he stumbles over to the remains of his bed, laying Louis down along the lumpy mattress. He can hardly see anything other than the shape of his body because his drapes are closed. This is a bad idea, bringing him to the worst, least romantic room in the entire mansion, but that is the least of Harry’s worries as he looms over Louis, brushing his hair out of his doe-like eyes. “H-Harry? Harry?” Louis asks in a small voice once Harry begins to work with the tightly knotted drawstring of Louis’ cotton pants, tugging impatiently and growling. “I’m losing you, Haz.”

“What?” Harry looks up sharply, lips turned down into a frown as he looks at Louis. Louis stares back, cheeks rosy red and lips even redder, smiling ashamedly. He writhes around slightly, looking uncomfortable, and Harry knows that the bed cannot be pleasant. Harry does not mean to overwhelm Louis like this; he can see it in his darkening blue eyes that he is having trouble keeping up. “Oh, Louis,” Harry sighs, leaning up to kiss his boy, swallowing the small whimper he gets in return. “I’m still here. It’s me. Haz, yeah?”

“Okay.” Louis exhales and nods his head before tugging Harry’s shirt up his chest, lips pressed together as he pushes it past his neck. Harry helps him remove it and toss it to the side, and he lets Louis stare at him for a moment. “Can we just look at each other?” he suggests in a high-pitched tone, dusting his fingertips along Harry’s chest. That, thankfully, is normal, and just Louis’ touch excites both his nerves and his cock. “Just look at me. Let’s just look at each other.”

“Of course, um, yeah. Yes.” Harry swallows thickly and brackets Louis’ head with his hands, caging him in. Louis looks nice like this, small and tucked underneath him; Harry always wants him right here. He kisses Louis’ forehead and simply looks, just like Louis had suggested, taking in the steel blue of his irises and the dilation of his pupils. Louis gazes back at him, and never has Harry felt so vulnerable, and never before has vulnerable felt so nice and assuring.

“You’re handsome,” Louis whispers minutes later, and Harry smiles gratefully, kissing him before placing his weight on one elbow so he can unfasten Louis’ pants with the opposite hand. After a struggling moment, he undoes the strings and gives Louis time to kick them off, and his underwear is next, leaving him completely nude save for his socked feet. Harry quickly gets a hand around his pretty cock, and Louis keens beautifully, shuddering as Harry gingerly strokes him to a complete erection.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Harry mutters in response as he releases Louis, leaning down to capture his lips again, and he licks past Louis’ lips as he wriggles his way out of his own clothes, kicking them off the edge of the bed. He slides his hand along the side of Louis’ thigh, leaving gooseflesh in his wake, and hoists up his leg, fingertips caressing his bottom. He knows he cannot do this with his bare fingers, knows it will not feel pleasant for Louis, but before he has the chance to say anything about it, Louis speaks up in a giggling whisper, back arching off the mattress as he groans.

“Harry, my back hurts,” he says, and Harry chuckles huskily, sitting up. “I can’t see how you sleep on it every night.” Louis’ voice drops even lower as he looks at Harry through his eyelashes, sitting up on his elbows. A trail of little love bites trickle down his neck, stopping directly above his heart, bright pink and purpling, and he looks so great like this, naked and flushed. “I want you to make love to me on a soft bed.”

“Fuck, Louis, I will,” Harry grunts immediately, and he helps Louis off of the bed, quickly pulling him out of the room and helping him around the mess on the floor as he does so. He presses him to the wall again before they can make it down the corridor and to another room; this time, Louis snakes a hand down to grab his cock, and Harry hisses out a moan, closing his eyes. He fondles with whatever part of Louis he can reach, which ends up being his backside, dipping his head down to kiss along his neck some more. He musters up the self-control to drag Louis a few steps to the left and into the nearest bedroom, which is a brilliant step up from his own torn-up room.

He traces circles into Louis’ waist as he backs him up to the large bed on the far side of the room, and he lies him down on the cream sheets, heart swelling when Louis smiles at the contact of his head hitting the downy pillow. This is an uninhabited room, as well – it will remain one until Harry makes love to Louis in it. He wants whatever sounds Louis is going to make to stay within it so Harry can hear it bounce off the walls again and again, and he wants Louis to open up so wide for him, wants him to melt into the bed sheets like the moonlight as it seeps in through the French windows. He wants to look in the room afterwards and he wants to blush at the thought of having taken Louis.

“I want you to stay right here,” he tells Louis, awaiting Louis’ nod before he gets up, scurrying out of the room and to the nearest bathroom. He tries to clean up some, washing his hands and tying his hair back out of his eyes, even biting off his fingernails before washing his hands again. He rummages in the half-dark through the cabinets and drawers, searching for lubrication, and once he wraps his fingers around what he is sure is the oil Louise used to use when her daughter was an infant, he shuffles his way out of the bedroom and back to Louis.

“You’re back,” Louis says softly when Harry closes and locks the bedroom door, and Harry nods, crawling onto the bed and smiling down at Louis. He kisses his cherry lips as slowly and avidly as possible, taking time to touch Louis’ skin again, to feel at everything he hadn’t touched before. He encourages Louis to touch him, too, and thankfully, he does, his fingertips soft as snow as they trail along Harry’s back.

“Tell me immediately if you feel like you’re hurting,” Harry says when he pulls away, stroking Louis’ face with his thumb. He swallows thickly and releases a breath through his nose, pressing his lips to Louis’ forehead.  “I’m going to take such great care of you, Lou, and I’m going to be so gentle with you,” he promises. “I’m going to try so hard to be as gentle as possible.”

“I trust you,” Louis murmurs; he sounds so beautiful, and Harry is so ready to take him apart in the most intimate way possible. Harry smiles and lowers his head to kiss a bruise onto Louis’ neck. “Pretend we’re dancing,” Louis offers, and Harry can feel the vibrations of his voice along his lips. “Just do that.” His words are nothing but hushed whispers now, dissipating into the air almost before Harry can hear him.   
“It’ll be lovely. Just like the books.”

“We’re going to create our own story,” Harry insists, nudging Louis’ knees apart and helping him prop up his feet. He works the oil onto a few of his fingers before bringing them to Louis’ bottom, eyeing him carefully as he rubs them over Louis’ hole, fingertips catching onto his rim. Louis is quick to respond, arching intricately into Harry with a petite moan, and once Harry inserts a slick finger, he begins to melt, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders and whimpering into his neck.

Harry slowly fingers Louis’ open, keeping the drag of his finger unhurried so he can pull every noise and tremble out of Louis as possible. He adds a second one after a while, sliding it in gently alongside the first, pausing when Louis tenses up due to the stretch and kissing him until he simmers. He asks quietly every so often how Louis is doing, how he is feeling, and Louis only answers with parted lips and choppy nods, which Harry accepts with a silent kiss to his mouth. He builds up a quicker thrust as he pushes in a final finger, and by then, Louis is whining audibly, canting his hips against Harry’s fingers.

“Harry- Harry, please,” he breathes, eyes pinching tightly closed. His chest is entirely flushed, the muscles in his face beginning to spasm, and another arch of Harry’s fingers brings him to a shout that pans out into a needy whine as he writhes about. Harry bites his lip as he lifts himself up some more, searching for whatever spot he’d reached with vigor.

“Hey, I’ve got you,” Harry coos when Louis kicks his legs out frantically, curving his fingers around Louis’ prostate once more. His other hand brushes Louis’ hair out of his face, his hairline dampening, before taking hold of his boy’s cock, thick and pink and warm in his palm. “Go ahead and- and let yourself go,” he coaxes, fitting his thumb along the head of Louis’ cock. He cannot see much other than a patch of Louis’ hair from where he is pressed into his neck, Louis’ hold around his shoulders tight and unrelenting. He knows Louis is close by the way his knees tremble on either side of Harry’s hips, by how the rim of his hole flutters alluringly around Harry’s fingers as his muscles contract. He doesn’t doubt that Louis feels like this is out of his control, but Harry has him, will always have him. “I know it feels weird, but it’s alright. Go ahead. Just relax.”

Louis slacks just a bit, rocking his cock into Harry’s hand with tiny jerks of his hips. Harry is only able to crook his fingers against Louis’ prostate one final time before Louis cries out, his telltale release overtaking him as he spills between his and Harry’s bellies, warm and sticky. Harry finds his way to Louis’ lips, kissing him softly as Louis pants into his mouth, the muscles of his abdomen jumping with what’s left of his orgasm.

“There you go, Louis,” Harry says fondly, pulling his fingers out of Louis’ bottom and wiping them off. He sits up on his knees, helping Louis into a seated position as he takes Louis in, smiling largely. Louis has never looked lovelier, he thinks; his hair is disheveled due to the soft bed sheets beneath him and he has never appeared so red. “I’m proud of you. That was nice, wasn’t it?” Louis opens his eyes and Harry finds them to be glistening, and he doesn’t answer, so Harry leans forward and kisses him once more. “Do you want to come again? How’s that sound?”

Louis nods his head, eyes slightly clouded over, and Harry kisses his nose, giving him time for his chest to stop heaving as he pulls off Louis’ socks, balling them up and leaving them unattended off to the side of the two of them. Slowly, Harry helps Louis transition to a position where Harry is lying down on the bed with Louis sitting up on his abdomen, straddling his hips.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks, reaching behind Louis to work at his own cock, fingers slick with more oil. His other hand grips Louis’ hip, thumbing through the spots of come on his skin.

“I’m okay, yes,” Louis says with a soft smile and a deep breath, and Harry hums, squeezing the base of his cock. He taps Louis’ hips to get him to lift them, and when he does, he positions the head of his cock against his hole, dragging it back and forth along his perineum until Louis’ arms begin to quiver from where he is balancing himself on Harry’s lower stomach. “ _Oh_ ,” he sighs, breathless and lovely, and Harry smiles, stroking up and down Louis’ side before fitting his cock against Louis’ rim once more.

“Sit down slowly, yeah?” he whispers, propping his head up on the pillow so he can see Louis better, and with a small noise in the back of his throat, Louis sinks down onto Harry’s cock while his face contorts stunningly. Harry helps him with both hands on Louis’ waist for comfort, rocking his own hips up gently to guide himself in further. It’s a slow process, getting inside of Louis, and Harry wants nothing more than to force himself inside of the tight heat of Louis’ hole, but when Louis is finally seated with his bottom flush to the tops of Harry’s thighs, Harry pulls him down to kiss his parted lips lovingly, gritting his own teeth as Louis squirms on his cock. “Take a moment,” he urges, knowing Louis probably can’t feel anything much other than a full and burning bottom, “it’ll stop hurting.” Louis nods hastily, kissing Harry once before ever so slowly sitting up straight again.

For a while, Louis just calms himself down and adjusts, eyes closed and head tilted toward the high ceiling while Harry watches his chest rise and fall. He begins to rotate his hips after a few minutes, his breath catching in his throat as he moves back and forth, back and forth, his cock half-hard once more and lying against his belly. Harry assists him with a tight grip on his hips and a praising smirk, raising him up and inch or two off his cock before pulling him down again, repeating the process when Louis yelps and scratches unintentionally at Harry’s belly.

Once Louis finds a manageable rhythm and balance, he begins to bring himself up and down on Harry’s cock all on his own, raised on his knees, picking up a bouncing speed that has the both of them breathless. Harry leaves him to it, moving his hands to caress Louis’ bottom, squeezing and pinching the flesh, gazing up at him intently as Louis works himself on him. Louis eventually removes his hands from Harry’s body to wrap them tightly around himself, allowing one to cover his mouth as he moans into it, upper half shuddering in pleasure.

When Louis begins to slow down and whimper, legs undoubtedly cramping and sore, Harry leans up so he can grab Louis’ neck and pull him down onto his chest, keeping his hand on the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He breaks Louis’ palm away from his mouth and kisses it hotly, shaking his head roughly because he does not want Louis covering anything up. He pushes Louis’ thighs further apart with his legs and uses his other hand to hold the cheeks of his arse apart as he thrusts up into him in stride, keeping the word _gentle_ in his head.

“Oh, o- _oh_ ,” Louis sighs loudly, hands worming up to cup Harry’s cheeks tightly, and he stares at Harry with furrowed eyebrows, his eyes so damp and blue. His mouth hangs open obscenely, lips flushed and bruised, and with a high moan, he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, eyes closing as the pink color leaves the swollen flesh. “Harder, Haz, _please_ , j-just a little bit, _oh, dieu_ ,” he squeaks, and Harry grips Louis’ bottom tighter, feeling at Louis’ rim with the fingers of his other hand, groaning at how Louis takes him so smoothly.

“I’ve got you,” Harry grunts, blinking up at Louis. He presses the heels of his feet into the mattress and ruts his hips up into Louis’ bottom, holding them there as he rotates his hips. Louis cries out and turns his head into the pillow beside Harry’s head, voice muffling into it, and Harry grunts again, disapprovingly – he wants to see and hear everything Louis’ got. Quickly, without managing to remove himself completely from Louis, he turns the both of them over so that Louis is against the mattress once more, arms out by the sides of his head and legs automatically rising to cage Harry’s waist. “So beautiful,” Harry murmurs distractedly, smoothing his hand down Louis’ chest, thumbing at his right nipple before rolling it gently. He isn’t even himself anymore, not really, as he places himself in a stance that allows him to slowly drag his cock in and out of Louis; he is not who he usually is as a beast. He is intent on making the sweetest love to Louis, on showing him all the care in the world. He moves over to lean on his elbow, one hand holding Louis’ legs up and out of the way. He can see Louis’ hole when he looks down, pink and swollen, fluttering as Harry gently thrusts, and he swallows, forcing his eyes on Louis once more. He continues it for a few minutes, giving Louis ease with the slower pace, before he smiles and says: “Hey, Lou.”

“Hi, Harry,” Louis slurs, his eyelids fluttering as Harry pulls out some with leisure, and he gasps out a quiet giggle that Harry cannot help but to kiss from his lips. Harry pinches his nipple and Louis twitches; Harry draws his hand away to hold Louis’ waist as he thrusts quickly into him once. “Feels nice, feels so good,” Louis responds to the gesture airily, arching his back slightly.

“Yeah? Does it?” Harry sits up and gently hooks his arms underneath Louis’ knees, drawing them up towards his chest and crouching on his knees as he rocks his hips against Louis’. This feels better now, even more intimate and slow and paced, and Harry can stare at Louis better, letting him receive while Harry gives him all he’s got. “Do you think you’re going to come again?” he asks, hips swift and cock sleek now, pushing Louis up the bed just slightly. He is close himself, striving to fight against chasing his own release and opting for getting Louis there first. “Could you do that?”

“Yeah,” Louis whispers, hands gripping Harry’s shoulders as he nods his head. His hair is in his face, and Harry makes quick work of pushing it aside before driving into him with a grunt. “Soon,” Louis adds in a small, weak voice.

“Alright,” Harry says before kissing Louis, thrusting his hips forward again and again, pulling only inches out before rocking against Louis once more. Harry’s moans mix with the small whimpers and cries that Louis produces, and they kiss until it is not even considered to be that more than it is simply panting into one another’s’ mouths. When Harry finally finds Louis’ prostate, he shifts Louis’ folded body to aim at it more sufficiently, and all the while, Louis tosses his head back, knees trembling unwillingly. As Harry feels Louis’ body stiffen, he knows he is closing in on an orgasm, so he sits himself up some, driving his hips forward at a quicker pace.

Another thrust against what Harry knows must be Louis’ prostate sends Louis over the edge, finally, nothing more than a quiet groan leaving his lips as his spent cock gives a short spurt of come onto his abdomen. He shakes with his release, though, looking like he is going to untangle, and Harry’s stomach coils up tightly at the sight. He manages a few erratic thrusts of his own before he spills inside of Louis – which causes Louis to gasp – his head falling into the crook of Louis’ neck as he kisses the flushed skin delicately in praise.

The world comes to a stop, and even though Harry knows that it has always seemed this way, he believes that Louis and himself are the only ones around, that their heavy breathing is the only oxygen around them. After a few tranquil moments, Harry pulls out of Louis and helps his trembling legs down onto the mattress and away from his chest. He does not really know what to say, does not even know if Louis is with him, so Harry takes to silently cleaning up, kissing Louis’ closed eyelids and watching them flutter in retaliation before he gingerly peels the bed sheets back so he can sleep there later, not wanting to stir the spent boy.

“Louis,” Harry whispers as he stands up and kicks all of their clothes to the corner of the bedroom, save for his own shirt, which he wipes up Louis’ come-ridden belly with and then delicately wipes over his hole – Harry’s own release is leaking out of it, and Harry gets a strong wave of possession. He will always remember this, he decides, will always remember how he is the first to keep this part of Louis, to have seen it. He wants to keep other parts of Louis, too, like how he sings in the bathtub, and he eventually wants to ask Louis for _him_ , for all of _him_ to love forever, but he knows he must take things page after page even with how little time he has. He has learned that things like this take time. “Louis, baby, are you okay?”

Louis doesn’t speak until Harry gets him under the covers, and he immediately curls up onto his side, gazing at Harry tiredly as Harry balls up his shirt for it to join the other pile of clothes. “I’m perfect, Harry, I feel nice,” he sighs, and Harry grins, parting his mouth to speak until the familiar ring of the clock interrupts him eleven times. Everything falls silent as Harry slowly becomes who Louis is more familiar with, and Harry is a bit afraid to look at Louis in the aftermath because it is so _weird_ , but when he does, Louis’ got a wide smile on his red face. Harry feels softer, less like he is going to crush Louis with just a touch. “You’re handsome,” Louis murmurs, having repeated it at least three times now, and Harry laughs, swooping down to kiss Louis’ lips. Louis puckers and kisses him back before nuzzling his head into the pillow.

“Would you still like me to stay?” Harry asks unsurely, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Louis nods his head, mutters a genuine ‘ _bien sûr_ ’, and Harry moves to the other side of the bed to settle in beside him, wrapping his arms around Louis’ middle.

Their bodies fit nicely.

“Do you hurt?” Harry whispers, fingertips brushing along his lower stomach, and Louis slowly turns around so that they are facing one another. His face is losing its heated flush, but his cheeks are still a little rosy, his hair is still plastered to his forehead, and his eyes are still as bright as ever. Harry hopes the small bruises on his neck and chest never fade. He nods again, looking sheepish, and Harry kisses his nose and frowns apologetically. “I’m sorry. I tried to be gentle.”

“It only hurts a little,” Louis explains dismissively, his voice hard to hear even with Harry’s proximity. He worms himself closer to Harry, and Harry accepts him full-heartedly, wrapping himself further around his bare body. Louis fits his head underneath Harry’s chin like always. “I feel so nice. You were really gentle like they are in the books.”

“I’m glad, then, I’m glad they’re gentle, too,” Harry muses, smiling small. Louis hums and says nothing, so Harry feels as if it is appropriate to say nothing in return, gazing out of the window for a moment. He thinks he sees the moon smiling knowingly at the two of them, at Harry because Harry finally has something to live for, but Harry closes his eyes before he can confirm. “Go to sleep, Louis,” he says moments later when Louis fidgets against him. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Okay.” Louis shifts some more, and Harry holds him tighter only to have Louis cough out a giggle and kiss his cheek. “Have a good night.”

“Goodnight, Lou.” Harry smiles as Louis curls his tiny, warm hands against his chest, and he doesn’t plan on falling asleep until Louis does minutes later, breath falling even and peaceful against Harry’s cheek. With this opportunity, Harry traces words along Louis’ damp back, and only after he is sure that the letters are readable to only his fingertips, and that they have faded silently into the night, does he lets himself sleep.

                                                                                                **//**

                Louis stirs awake peacefully but immediately grunts, sluggishly wriggling an arm out from whatever it had been pressed down by and throwing it over his eyes, the crease of his elbow washing out the blue and grey light that seeps in through the cracks of the unsuccessfully closed drapes and worms through his eyelids. He is submerged in darkness once more, and for a moment he sits there, breathing slowly as he tries to fall back asleep. His body knows it is morning, however, and after a few trying minutes, he gives up, attempting to roll over onto his belly. However, he is stopped by a firm body that grumpily groans when Louis bumps into it, and Louis drowsily giggles, opening one eye and reaching up to rub the sleep out of it.

He had nearly forgotten that Harry was beside him, hovering in the uncomfortable space between being asleep and then awake. Louis can tell that he looks like any other human even as his hair is a bird’s nest of curls around his face. He is without many covers; Louis had been hogging most of them, and, murmuring an apology, Louis bites back giddy giggles as he tucks more of his covers around Harry.

Louis then turns around on his side to give Harry his privacy to sleep, his right ear on the pillow, one hand having slid underneath his pillow, and the other one resting on his bare abdomen. He doesn’t have to feel for anything to know that he is naked, and he squeezes his eyes shut when he remembers that Harry is naked, too. As everything crashes back into him, into his mind and body, he moans in something that isn’t quite embarrassment, more like recognition, curling himself into a tight ball. That brings a tiny ache to the very base of his back, and he squeaks at the sharp pain, pushing his face into his pillow even though, no, it doesn’t hurt too badly at all. He is mostly flustered.

“Louis,” drawls a very fond, thick voice, and Louis just makes another sound, feeling a little bad for having fully woken Harry up. He turns around, however, to face Harry, ignoring another little pang of hurt that punches his back, and he smiles timidly when his gaze is met by dull green eyes and a pink smile. “What are you up to, Lou?” Harry asks, blinking slowly. His arm stretches out to take Louis’ waist, and he pulls him close, which Louis completely accepts. “You sound awfully petulant.”

“I’m not, I promise,” Louis muses, leaning forward to give Harry’s pale cheek a kiss. He is feeling quite the opposite, frankly; sure, he cannot help but to blush at the reminder that he and Harry are naked in bed together and at the fact that they’d made love and Louis fully remembers _all of it_. He cannot help but to squirm every time he moves improperly and feels another jab at his lower back. He cannot help any of it, but he is happy, warm, and content. He feels like he belongs to someone, finally, and it is a great feeling. “I was just trying to go back to sleep, is all. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I’m glad you woke me,” Harry mutters after he yawns, propping himself up on one elbow. The hand of the arm that is on Louis’ waist begins to trace shapes along his lower back, nearly exactly where Louis feels his pain, and Louis hums, closing his eyes. Harry chuckles deeply, and then clears his throat. “I want to spend time with you before I have to go.”

Louis furrows his eyebrows, refusing to open his eyes again. He shifts, pressing himself closer to Harry as if he could hold him down onto the bed if need be. “You don’t need to go,” he murmurs, pouting just slightly. “There isn’t anything to hide from me anymore. It doesn’t make any sense for you to leave me.” _I can’t fall for you as hard as I want to if you are always gone_.

“I suppose you’re right,” Harry says after a moment with a reluctant chuckle, and Louis grins, eyes remaining closed as Harry finds his lips with his own. Louis feels so incredibly warm as Harry kisses him, and he is still unused to the feeling. He knows it is a good thing, though, that kissing him feels so unfamiliar still – he hopes it means that it will always be like this. He hopes that he will always find joy and teasing butterflies in his belly when he kisses Harry.

Louis finds a way to curl back into Harry, drawing the bed sheets up along the back of his head as if it will provide a shield that will keep the sun away. There is a silent agreement that is exchanged between the both of them that they will stay in bed, will do it all day if their bodies let them. They won’t move; they’ll simply hold one another because it is what now feels right. Harry settles back down with his arm still around Louis’ waist, and Louis is definitely content as he feels his lips against Harry’s collarbone when he yawns. He finds sleep once more almost as soon as Harry does, his last thought being how everything can’t really be any more perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH! Tell me what you think?! I'm so totally anxious!


	12. XI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, here we go again; terribly sorry that I've been gone for such a long time, I've kind of lost motivation here and there, but I'm determined to finish this and bring about a happy ending! I hope you enjoy this mellow, sweet chapter! :)

              April brings forth a lot of rain, washing out all of the snow and solidifying the fact that winter is nothing more than a reminder. In the beginning of the month, Harry enjoyed the rain and he knew Louis did too by the look in his eyes – which matched the beautiful, soft blue that the sky turned right before it broke with rain – but by the middle of the month, it was getting a little dreary and Harry was getting a little sad watching Louis mope about because the sun was gone. Harry feels as if Louis’ entire mood is reflected by the weather outside, and it makes sense; during the sunny, snowy days in February, Louis had always been tranquil but bright. When nighttime comes around, he is mellow and quiet. Every day since the beginning of April, he has been gentle and maybe even a bit petulant.

Louis cries a lot in this month, inexplicably, tears falling just like the rain, and Harry hears him all the time; sometimes the young man is in the kitchen, tears tracing his cheekbones as he watches and laughs as Lux and Niall play a messy game of tag when they’re supposed to be cooking. Other times Harry can’t help but to hear him in his bedroom, his sniffles not quite silent so early in the morning. A couple of times, he has cried when he was with Harry, the whites of his eyes turning pink as he would his head when Harry asked what was wrong, what he could do to help.

“I’m okay,” Louis would say, and he would sniffle once and drag the heel of his hand across one of his eyes. And then he’d pitter forward just like the rain on the roof every hour of the day and kiss Harry’s cheek with delicate, thin lips, whether he was his beast or the Harry that Louis knew, whether he was kissing a weird scar or a indented dimple. One of the few things Harry was sure of was that Louis liked kissing him regardless of how he looked. “I’m just–” Louis would begin, and then he would sob a sob that Harry still does not know if it is happy or sad, and he would shake his head once more. “I’m being silly.” And that would be that.

Louis develops a new favorite past time when he cannot go outside in the rain, and it is, oddly enough, bathing, sitting in the bathtub and reading until he either drops his book in the scented water with a guttural scream or his toes crinkle up like raisins. Harry even joins him sometimes, and it’s completely, domestically innocent, just to sit together on opposite ends of the tub to talk to one another. There is no actual process of getting clean other than the one time Louis had washed Harry’s long, wild hair, blunt fingernails scratching at his scalp.

“What color soap do you want, Lou?” Harry asks, glancing over his shoulder to watch as Louis sticks his fingers under the faucet, feeling for the warming water that only gets hotter as it fills the tub. He is clad in nothing but a pair of white shorts, every inch of the skin showing looking pale and smooth. Harry likes to think that he is completely familiar with Louis’ body, every dimple in his lower back as well as every rare freckle on his arms and chest. He has traced the skin many times when the two of them were stoic in each other’s company, when they were caught in the mood they seem to always be in nowadays. Harry feels, memorizes, and Louis talks in a velvety voice, his eyes hardly ever open.

“Let’s use all of it,” Louis says with a hint of mischievousness in his voice, and he shuffles over to Harry to take the soap salts that he had been looking through, cradling the small bottles in his arms. Most of them are scented: the light purple ones are the lavender Louis loves. The cream ones are fresh cotton. The yellow ones are cinnamon spice. “It’ll smell really nice.”

Harry disagrees, thinks that it will actually smell unbearably strong, but he doesn’t say that, choosing instead to chuckle and make his way over to the bathtub and settle beside Louis. He hums in approval as Louis drops gracious pinches of each bath salt into the water. Harry feels like he can smell everything immediately, but it isn’t too overwhelming, so he encourages Louis to put in just a little more. The water bubbles up, and Louis watches with something that might be awe, and Harry sees blue and pink even though those colors are not in the tub.

“I’m going to get in,” Louis says gently, and when Harry looks over at him, he is biting his lip and meeting his gaze, the bridge of his nose and the skin under his eyes turning red as he blushes, “turn around so I can take my trousers off.”

“I’ve seen you plenty of times before, Louis,” Harry says fondly, but he turns around because he will do anything for Louis, whether he understands the boy’s thoughts or not, looking down at his socked feet. He had seen all of Louis just recently; he’d made love to Louis once more just shy of two weeks ago, underneath the soft sheets of Louis’ bed with Louis’ lips gorgeously parted as well as his legs. It had been simple and sweet; Harry had simply been _Harry_ , and that was the only name that had left Louis’ mouth. Louis’d released after him with a shudder and a grip on Harry’s curls, and that had been the first time he had cried in front of Harry since the very beginning. He had felt okay, as he had promised, simply shaken up and overwhelmed with emotion, maybe with the feeling of being loved, because Harry knows that his own feelings are no longer kept securely inside of him; he is bursting at the seams. Harry had kissed Louis until the young man had fallen asleep with his wet eyelashes clumped together and the ghost of a smile on his kiss-bitten lips.

“ _Pas un mot_ , Harry,” Louis muses with a bit of a giggle, and Harry grins down at the floor as Louis gets in, gentle splashes of water indicating that he is settling into the warm bath. He gives a brief, satisfied-sounding, “okay, Haz,” after a bit, and then Harry turns around, already beginning to take off his socks. “Are you going to get nude?” Louis asks, and Harry raises an eyebrow, thrown off just slightly by the question, especially by how it casually rolls off of his tongue like he is asking Harry if he thinks Louise would mind making more pastries.

“Do you want me to?” He responds slowly, slipping his arms through the sleeves of his collared shirt before pulling it over his head and throwing it off somewhere else in the small bathroom. It is in fact a little on the tiny side, the washroom, but it’s neat; for four months, since it has been Louis’ own, Louis has kept it tidy. There is a small carpet in front of the bronze bathtub, and a sink against the small side of the room adorns the lotion Louis always, always smells like. When Harry looks over at Louis again, the young man’s eyes widen by a fraction and he nods, a faint smile on his face.

“Yes. I do.” He lifts his hands out of the water and covers his eyes with them. “I won’t peek.”

Harry laughs, pulling off his pants and underwear before climbing into the bathtub with Louis. He reaches out to draw Louis’ hands away from his eyes when he is settled in, squeezing them before releasing them and giving him a smile. Louis smiles back and scoots himself a few inches away from Harry so they both have room, and then he blows a bubble with his cheeks and lowers his head into the water, coming up seconds later and blinking quickly. His hair is completely wet in an instant, hanging long and just touching his shoulders. It is in dire need of a trim, but Louis refuses every time its length is brought up.

“It’s going to get too warm to take these baths every day, soon enough,” Harry muses, stretching out his legs beneath the water until his toes bump against Louis’ legs, which are folded in front of him. The hot water relaxes his muscles, and it relaxes Louis’ too, speaking from how his shoulders slump. Harry enjoys how casual they can be, and at least Harry likes the simplicity of sitting in a hot bath together to just talk. “It’s been spring for a while now. Soon the weather’s going to catch up, too.”

“The only thing that happens in the spring is rain,” Louis says petulantly, his lower lip jutting out just barely in the way Harry likes. Louis doesn’t even look at him; his eyes are trained on the bubbles that engulf the two of them, his fingers brushing along the suds while water while his hair steadily drips into his eyes. As grumpy as he sounds, his expression is soft. “Rain, rain, rain. It’s raining right now. I can hear it. Everything gets so grey, and grey is my favorite color, _vous savez_ , because it’s right in the middle of black and white, but it’s just so boring now.”

Harry smiles and shrugs one bare shoulder, pushing himself forward a little bit and arching his back so he is close to Louis, closer to his radiating personality. “The rain sounds pretty, though, don’t you think? Even if it is a little grey.” The rain reminds Harry of Louis’ tears, the pitter-patter of heavy droplets on the roof sounding like how Louis’ tears would sound like when they hit his pillow. Louis’ lips quirk up into a smile and he hums, his equivalent of an agreement. Harry smiles even wider for no reason at all. “Hey, look at me, Lou,” he murmurs; his heart is swelling, swelling.

Louis looks up immediately, something Harry knows the boy would not have done four months ago, which causes an unbelievable wave of accomplishment to burst up in his chest, to put even more pressure on his poor heart. Louis’ eyelids flutter as he lifts his head, blue eyes soon training on Harry’s green ones as delicate fingers rise out of the water to push wet hair out of his face. He is so beautiful and petite, looking a little unsure as he blurts, “what?”

Harry leans forward a little more instead of answering, supporting himself on his hands, which are pressed against the bottom of the bronze tub, and Louis seems to take the hint because he grins, his four canines and the one crooked tooth on his lower set of teeth white and prominent. Harry’s lips end up on those, though, because Louis doesn’t close his own lips when Harry kisses him, but when Harry chortles, Louis puckers his lips and intertwines his wet fingers in Harry’s curls, pulling him in for a kiss that is only slightly more proper because they both start to laugh and Harry gets wet hair in his mouth.

They sit in the tub for over an hour, from rainy midday until rainy early-afternoon, talking with gentle kisses that are pressed to red and wet skin. Harry is so in love, he knows it, and he tries to write the words into Louis’ thigh, which ends up pressed against Harry’s hip in one of their many attempts to get closer to one another, but Louis says it tickles, bats his hand away with his own delayed one as it pushes lazily through the water. It had been much easier when Louis was peacefully asleep.

So Harry kisses Louis’ lips three quick times to compromise until he can get the words to come out of his mouth.

                                                                                      **//**

              Long after the cold water had been drained from the tub and long after Louis’ fingertips no longer looked like weird, dried up fruit, Louis sits alone in his room, less than content, admittedly, a book in his lap. The drapes are wide open, revealing the dreary sky and the frowning faces of trees with sprouting pink blooms, and even a little bit of lightning that scares Louis when the thunder follows relentlessly. He and Harry had parted for the time being, just until dinner, because sometimes Harry is still uncomfortable being his beast, and sometimes Louis likes a little silence. They had made a promise to have supper together at six o’clock sharp, just like how they always have supper together.

Louis startles when another boom of thunder disrupts his reading, and he closes his book in a fit of quittance, tossing it along the length of his neatly made bed, which seems to be an endless swarm of fluffy pillows and silky sheets still at this point. He looks towards the window again, skeptically like he is unsure exactly what he will find, and when he sees that the rain still hasn’t let up and in fact seems to be pelting the window even harder, he feels his eyes dampen and his vision blur.

At a time like this, he would be in the family room of his home in the village, curled up with his sisters with hot water infused with ginger and honey, reading fairytales because their mother never had been one to let them outside in this ugly weather. Louis knows that his sisters are doing that now and are probably curled up near a fire, but Charlotte has inevitably taken the place of Louis, reading to them, because she, as well as their mother, are the only two that can read well at this point besides Louis himself. Louis _misses_ all of it, misses it so much, misses _them_ , and he wants to go see his mother and sisters again.

Despite his yearning to go back to his family, he has never dared to try to run away again and he has never even thought about it. He cares for Harry too much to have him worried about him, he is scared of the woods, and he doesn’t want to cross Harry, either. He is stuck, because he loves the castle and he loves being able to be with someone as romantically as everyone is in the books Louis reads. He thinks he loves Harry, too, in every scary aspect, and he _knows_ he can’t be without him any longer, not after four months of seeing only his face every day. It terrifies him, because he had always been so independent, and now he sort of is not.

He wants to go home, but Harry has become it.

Louis lies down on his bed and cries into the sheets when this realization hits him, blaming Harry and the weather for his melancholy mood. He hates the rain, and he loves Harry, and he misses his family, and he doesn’t know how to express all of his feelings in any other way than to cry. He cries until his eyes hurt and until his head is foggy and tight, and then he just lies there, sniffling and inhaling the smell of freshly washed sheets. He cries again when the grandfather clock chimes six times, curling up into as small of a ball as his body will allow. He is used to having the pressure and warmth of another body against his back. He has grown familiar with lips at his ear, with a nose burrowed in his hair. He misses that, too.

Minutes later, Louis hears his door open with a gentle creak, and he noses into the sheets because he has a feeling that it is Harry, who has come to save him from his own thoughts, from feeling so sad. Louis looks up and smiles wetly, expectantly, his cheeks damp with tears, and his lips part to speak, but where he is looking, where Harry’s face should be, there is nothing. It is only Liam who has come, Louis notices when his eyes drift downwards, and the clock quickly scrambles onto the bed, looking awfully apologetic with his wide, cartoon-y brown eyes, like he knows who Louis had been expecting. “I’m sorry, Louis,” he says, smiling as sadly as Louis feels. “I’ve only come to fetch you for dinner. Niall went to go find Harry, though, so he’ll be around very soon.”

“Thanks, Liam, I’ll be there in a moment,” Louis murmurs as he presses his face down into the mattress again, and Liam leaves without another word, leaving the door open. Louis takes a while to push himself up, and once he is on his feet, he straightens out his comforter before doing the same with his clothes and making his way out of his room and down the hall. He passes the painting he loves and stares at it for just a second as he feels his face, which is still damp and hot. He fans his cheeks some as he makes it to the dining hall, footsteps slow.

Harry is seated in his chair when Louis is close enough to see him properly, having to look past the centerpiece because it is just as grand, only the flowers have taken on a spring-y feel. He is beastly at this hour, his frame larger and his face a little roughed up. He smiles with teeth that aren’t as straight as Louis is used to, his chair groaning as he rises up from it. Louis’ lips reciprocate the smile all on their own as he strides forward to meet him, his hands locked tightly around his back, fingers squeezing together. He hums as Harry’s arms encircle him familiarly, cocooning him into his chest, and when he pulls away, Harry’s rough hands move up to cup Louis’ cheeks, the tips of his thumbs stroking the now sensitive skin under Louis’ eyes.

“You’ve been crying again,” he observes, his smile falling just a little, and Louis glances off to the side to look at their meal. It is chicken pot pie, something that Louis has only had twice before since he’s been around. He wonders what makes tonight special enough to have it again as he meets Harry’s gaze once more, his warm green eyes comforting no matter how the rest of him looks.

“Yes, but I’m okay now,” he reassures, and he really is; he does not get how Harry makes him so sad and happy at the same time. Regardless, Louis always wants to be by his side, and being with him right then, with his hands on his face, makes him feel like he is finally where he belongs. He grabs Harry’s hands and pulls them away from his cheeks, squeezing them a bit before he drops them and sits down. “Let’s eat now, yeah? I’m hungry.”

Harry is silent for a moment before he nods his head, backing up until he is at his seat and slowly sitting down. He pushes himself in further and smiles at Louis, his big hands lying flat on the table. He looks nervous, continuously licking his lips like he wants to speak, but his eyes close when Louis folds his hands together, eyeing him readily before closing his own eyes and blessing the food.

“I’d like to invite you to dinner,” Harry says the moment Louis looks up and reaches for his wriggling fork. He is leaned forward a little bit, eyes bright and green as the vines hanging from the trees outside. Louis narrows his eyes a little bit, confused, and a laugh falls from his lips.

“We’re already at dinner, silly beast,” he exclaims, poking his fork into his small pie and watching steam rise out of it. He pierces a bit of a carrot and raises it to his lips, grabbing it with his teeth and chewing while he grins at Harry. “We’re at dinner right now. We eat dinner together every day.”

“I mean a _real_ dinner, Louis,” Harry says, unfazed by how Louis calls him a beast; Louis has hoped to transform the word into something that didn’t mean so much and wasn’t as scary as it previously was. His lips turn up into a wary smile. “Not that this isn’t real, but, eh- I’d like to have a really nice dinner with you. With lots of food, you know? And then I was thinking we could have a ballroom dance. Like we did that one night, remember that? Only this time, I’d like music, and it could be in the ballroom, and I was thinking we could dress accordingly, with really nice clothes. I’m positive Louise will be happy to find something for you to wear. In fact, I’ve already talked to her about it, in case you agreed to it. And I promise I won’t whisk you away again and–”

“–make love to me,” Louis finishes timidly, airily, as he swallows another bite of food, his cheeks pink. Before the air turns too awkward with both of their shyness, Louis sets his fork down and lifts his glass for a drink of water, grinning around the rim of it. “I’d love to do that with you,” he whispers when he puts it down. He twists his fingers in his lap, looking down at them for a moment. “The dancing and the big dinner, I mean. That sounds perfect.”

“Does it?” Harry straightens his back out a little, his shoulders raised, looking about as confident as Louis has ever seen him. “You really want to?” Louis nods his head, unable to help but giggle. He is looking forward to it, looking forward to dressing up like a prince and having Harry see him, looking like a prince, too. “Then I’ll meet you here again in exactly twenty-four hours, and I’ll give you the best night of your life, Louis,” Harry finishes, sounding so sincere that Louis can’t help but to blush again.

He doesn’t know of anything else to do other than nod, so he does just that, feeling divine as his grin stretches his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to let me know what you think! x.


	13. XII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've gotten much more into writing and finishing this story and so far I am very pleased with it! These chapters are getting a little more complicated to write up but I'm doing the very best I can and I'm getting a lot of inspiration and I just hope that inspiration shows through my words! Enjoy the chapter! Kudos, comments, or bookmarks mean a lot! :)

              For the first time in four months, Louis gets his hair cut, sitting straight and still on a stool in front of his mirror as personified scissors chop off his wavy ends with a skill that Louis thinks couldn’t be done by an actual human. The window near his bed is opened, letting in warm, pollenated air so Louis’ bare back doesn’t feel cold but his allergies wind up a little through the roof, leaving him to sneeze and then wrinkle up his button nose, asking for a tissue to wipe at it. The house is busier than it has ever been before today; Louis can hear the commotion outside his bedroom, clattering dishes and rushed scurrying across hardwood floor, screeching and humming and sweeping. Everything is being polished and perfected for tonight – _Louis_ is being polished and perfected. He wants to be part of the action of cooking, or even cleaning, but instead he has been ridden to his bedroom, getting washed and pampered and sprayed, which is pretty nice, too, something he cannot complain about.

“Do you think I could see Harry between now and dinnertime?” Louis asks softly, crossing his ankles again and again in a fidgeting manner, right over left, before, no, left over right. He doesn’t move his head because he is rather terrified that he’ll end up messing with the ministrations of the scissors, so he only shifts his eyes to the cabinet beside the mirror, who somehow manages to give Louis a warm gaze through the hard wood of her doors. Louis knows what she is going to say, so he furrows his eyebrows, grunting a little. “ _Se il vous plaît?_ ” he pleads, “I haven’t seen him all day, you know. I’m not even sure where he is at. For all I know, he could be out in the courtyard having all of his fun without me.”

“He’s up in his room, doing the same as you,” Victoria assures with a chuckle. Louis sighs and glances back at himself in his mirror, smoothing his hands over his bare arms. It’s not Harry’s touch, that’s for sure, but sometimes when he closes his eyes he swears he feels Harry’s calloused palms instead. “You’ll see him in just a few hours, don’t you worry.” She clicks her tongue, and Louis looks up to find scissors swirling around his head, snipping the thin strands. “Oh, take a little more off the top, dear. Short in the back, too, yes. And, Louis, as soon as we’re done with your hair, the tub is full so you can bathe. We’ve got the salts that you like,” Louis opens his mouth, but Victoria answers him before he can ask anything, “and the ones Harry likes, too.”

“Alright,” Louis says with a smile, his cheeks tinting red. “Will you show me my outfit afterwards? Has Louise finished it?”

“Yes and yes. You know Louise.”

Louis giggles. Yes, he knows. “Do you think Harry will like me in it?” he asks next, trying to sound nonchalant, even though his ears burn a little more and his fingertips tingle. Harry’s approval is something he craves, as is Harry’s anything. He will do anything for Harry if he gets positive attention from it; his warm arms, his full-lipped kisses, his knowing stares. He positively lives off of it. “Of course, it- it doesn’t matter at the end of the day, of course,” Louis winces at his own mindless repetition, “because I’ll like it regardless, I just know, but I just–”

“Oh, don’t choose to be modest now,” Victoria says fondly; Louis can hear it in her voice. Louis chuckles nervously, looking down at his feet, which sit on one of the rungs his bench has. “You know Harry likes you in everything you wear. And he should, because you’re a handsome lad. And if he doesn’t like what you wear, he certainly doesn’t seem appalled by your clothes when he is taking them off of you. Quite the opposite, really, my dear. He does it quickly, sure, but he compliments you in them. Takes them off tenderly. I’ve seen it myself. It’s–”

“Victoria!” Louis interrupts incredulously, his entire face not hesitating to flush, and he closes his eyes, groaning quietly at the small giggle the wardrobe produces, utterly humiliated. He briefly wonders just how much Victoria has seen before realizing that there hadn’t been anything she _hasn’t_ seen; they’d been in the _same_ room, the wardrobe sitting still and quiet in the corner of the room whilst Harry and Louis had made their way to Louis’ bed, hands and mouths everywhere, peeling off everything that was getting in the way of their bare bodies becoming one, of their hearts aligning in one steady, loud, and excited beat. “Vicky,” he breathes out, “don’t tell Louise.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, my love, but I wish you’d told Niall that.” Before Louis can react to those words, she quickly finishes, “but Harry will absolutely love you in what you’re wearing. You’ll look great and he won’t be able to take his eyes off of you.”

Louis tries not to look too pleased even though his back straightens out and he looks into his reflection in the mirror, a happy grin on his face as his hands fold across one another in his lap. He is soon beaming, though, wistful, his heart swelling up, up impossibly high, seemingly unable to settle. He doesn’t think he ever wants it to. “I hope so.”

                                                                                      **//**

              “How do you think I should say it?” Harry asks, running his tongue over his dry lips (which certainly do not feel as nice as they would if Louis’ lips were tender against them) as he tampers with the collar of his dress shirt, standing before the full-height mirror, nearly completely dressed. The question has been eating at him, though he hadn’t dared speak the words until just now, and his cheeks are even flushed, embarrassed that he is even asking, that he is in no way experienced enough to know this on his own. He glances at Liam and Niall, who are down by his feet, Liam tugging at the cuffs of his pants and Niall watching from a few feet away, not keen at all on setting Harry on fire, which Harry appreciates.

“Say what, exactly?” Liam asks distractedly, toddling backwards, his big brown eyes focusing on his pant legs from a short distance, searching for a flaw, for a measurement having gone wrong. The hands on his face tick irritably, reading two-oh-seven even though it’s actually half past five. He huffs a breath of exasperated air and surges forward again, teetering once more with Harry’s dark blue slacks.

“That- that I love him and all,” Harry says, clearing his throat and busying himself with the cuffs of his sleeves next, straightening them out. It is embarrassing, admittedly, but not because he loves Louis; no, he could shout that out to the world and be the proudest he’s ever been by it. He couldn’t be happier about the blue and pink that swirls around him at the mere thought of Louis, cannot deny the way those two colors leave trails in the halls that Louis has just walked down. He is entranced by how long his world has stopped entirely with this newly surfaced feeling, and if it keeps Louis in his arms every night, then Harry never wants to world to catch back up. No, Harry is not embarrassed for letting himself fall in love with someone like Louis; he is embarrassed because he does not know the first thing about this.

Niall begins to cackle, and Harry glares down at him, looming over the candlestick, teeth bared, vision dotting red. He is a little upset that he is still his beast, and that he probably will not change in thirty minutes, but that is okay. He can control himself around Louis, but not so much around Niall. Liam pulls on his pants and he simmers down, narrowing his eyes at Niall before turning his head jerkily back to his reflection. “Still,” he whispers, his voice as quiet as Liam’s flames, “you’ll wrinkle, so stop fidgeting.”

“Fuckin’ twat,” Harry grumbles to the candlestick, noting his own flushed cheeks. He still needs an answer. “I’m just nervous,” he explains, smoothing his hands down the front of his shirt. Louis does the same thing a lot, and Harry imagines he’s picked it up from the boy. “I don’t want- I want him to love me, too. And I don’t want to say it in a way that will make him uncomfortable. But… I don’t want to let it slip out like it’s easy to say. I want him to know that I’ve literally never felt like this before in my life.”

Liam doesn’t answer, and, surprisingly, Niall doesn’t have anything to say, either. Harry closes his eyes, sighs, and when he opens them again, he finishes getting dressed, shrugging on his blazer and fixing the dark tie that hangs around his neck. He pulls his hair out of his face and slips on his shoes; he practices stepping along his room, counting the seconds – one, two, three, step – remembering what Louis had taught him when they’d danced.

He doesn’t want to step on Louis’ feet when they dance again.

                                                                                      **//**

              Harry doesn’t want to be late to the dinner, but he also doesn’t want to cave into his nerves and let himself wait for Louis before Louis is even ready, so he waits a minute or two after six to exit his bedroom, his hands trembling from where they are pressed against his thighs. His shoes clonk obnoxiously loud on the hardwood floor, regardless of the red carpet under his feet, and he feels short of breath, but he paces himself, restating the small words of advice Niall and Liam had given him when the grandfather clock had chimed six o’clock.

_“Be gentle with him Harry, remember that.”_

_“Chew with your mouth closed. Don’t be sloppy and use a fork_ and _knife.”_

_“Smile at him.”_

_“Be you, Harry. Do everything you’ve been doing because he can’t resist that.”_

It’s reassuring, it really is, and as Harry thinks of all of these tips, walking down the hallway in his too-loud shoes, he knows that he will be okay. Telling Louis hat he’s in love with him can’t be too bad. Worst case scenario, which Harry tries to keep in mind: Louis blushes and giggles and calls him silly in that faint, lovely voice of his. Louis has always been one to do that.

Harry turns a corner and heads down the staircase, his shoes loud-loud-loud, and heads in the direction of the dining hall (he smells the food, feels the heat from the stove; _marvelous_ ), glancing down the hallway where Louis’ room is located. It’s dark down there, but at the same time, it’s very pink and blue, filled with stripes and circles and hearts that bounce against the walls that only Harry can see, still there from every time Louis has pranced along that single hallway, singing and dancing.

Harry smiles and shoves his hands deep into his pockets, turning away to continue his walk to the dining table. He makes it a few steps, a few slow, paced steps that contrast completely against the rapid beating of his heart, before there is a small clear of a throat behind him, and he _immediately_ turns, his eyes _immediately_ settling upon the young man in front of him because that is all he’s been looking at for four months in a row, although it feels like a lifetime. Louis is all he ever wants to look at.

But there is Louis _now_ , walking as slowly as Harry’s been trying to, the fingers of his hands laced and in front of him, a shy smile on his face. His hair is cut, finally, although Harry had quite enjoyed brushing it out of his face when they made love, pulling it free from where it covered his neck so Harry could kiss at the flushed skin better. He’d quite liked twisting it between his fingers as Louis fell asleep, or while he woke up. He liked listening to Louis complain about how everyone was complaining about him needing to cut his hair. He is dressed in yellow from head to the bottom of his pants, resembling the sun exactly. He begins to spark when his walking comes to a stop, nervous fingers fiddling with the hem of his blazer as his gaze goes down towards the floor. Harry can see his blush from where he is, several feet away. Stunning, Louis is, and Harry definitely is short of breath now, swallowing in an attempt to relieve his dry throat.

“Haz,” Louis says timidly in greeting, hesitating a bit before he surges forward, his footpace quick now like he is about to jump and soar and never come down. It takes seven quick, excited steps before Louis is in front of Harry, looking up at him, his cheeks rosy pink and his eyes one of the brightest shades of blue Harry has ever seen. “Wow,” he whispers, his hands slowly raising to touch Harry’s shoulders, the base of his palms over his chest, fingertips at his shoulders. His touch is delicate, and Harry slowly lets his hands hold Louis’ hips, feeling the soft fabric of his yellow blazer beneath his calloused hands. “You’re so handsome,” Louis continues; he’s breathless, “the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. You’re like a prince. You’re the prince who sweeps the girl off her feet in the end- you’ve swept me off my feet.”

Harry smiles softly, squeezing Louis’ hips just a bit before stepping back so he can take another good look at him. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his smile growing at the giggle he gets in return for his compliment. How he’d gotten such a great boy, such a lovely, lovely boy, to end up in front of his house, he does not know, but he is keen on having him forever, and that is what tonight is all about. “Yellow looks great on you, my darling sweetheart,” Harry whispers.

“Louise said you’d like it,” Louis explains, his smile bright and white. Harry cannot help but to lean in and kiss him once, pulling him close once more by the waist. Louis’ body fits nicely even when he’s just close like this. “I really like it,” Louis adds when he steps back, touching his bottom lip once. “She wouldn’t show me until I had to put it on and leave, after I got my hair cut and bathed and everything.”

“She was right,” he whispers, “it’s perfect for you. I love it. You look like a pretty sunflower. _Ma jolie tournesol_.” Louis laughs, reaching up on his toes to kiss one of the scars on Harry’s cheek. The contact starts there and then blossoms to the rest of his body, leaving Harry warm and, as always, in love. When Louis pulls away, Harry points in the direction of the grand staircase, where the lights from the chandelier shine in on it, making the cherry wood look dark and sleek, and the red carpet look expensive and everlasting. “Go up there,” he suggests, “and then come back down. You’ll look magnificent.”

With an airy gasp that is followed directly by a cackle, Louis bounces on his toes before spinning around and bounding towards the staircase, light on his feet as he hops up each step. The chandelier gives him no mercy, lighting him up, giving him all the attention in the world. Harry watches with the same amount of attention as Louis trots his way up the staircase, and when he gets to the top, Harry watches the small man’s chest heave as he takes a deep, excited breath.

“Are you ready?” He calls loudly, and Harry looks behind him before taking a few steps back, making sure he is in the best position possible to view this boy and all he’s got. He nods his head and grins when he is satisfied, sticking his hands into his pockets.

“Go ahead,” he calls back, and Louis gives him his own nod in return, placing one delicate hand on the railing, his touch looking light as a feather even from Harry’s position. He waits another moment before he starts to descend, thankfully moving at a slower pace than how he’d gotten up the steps, his footpace gentle and quiet. He wears the largest grin, his back straight and his head up, confident; as he gets closer to Harry, Harry can see his red face, which looks even brighter against all of the yellow he’s got on. It is like Louis knows how to catch each ray, and even though the light is artificial, he owns it. He walks for ages, but Harry wishes it were longer; he’s just fine with staring at Louis for the rest of his life.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry reminds Louis like it’s the last time he’d be able to tell him, and Louis laughs, giving in with his poise and hopping down the last few steps. He moves in front of Harry again, and Harry lifts his hands, holding the sides of Louis’ face with it. His apple cheeks bunch up the slightest bit, his button nose upturned. Harry’s heart aches.

_I love you._

“How’d that look?” Louis asks, looking up at Harry through his lashes. He holds Harry’s wrists with his own small hands. He shuffles his feet, lifting himself up on his toes like he’s trying to match Harry’s height, but he’s got quite a long way to go. “I felt good.”

“You’re the prettiest ever,” Harry compliments once again, and when Louis gives him a bright smile, Harry pulls away and takes Louis’ right hand in his left, guiding him down the hall and to the dining room, where dinner has been waiting for what feels like forever.

“Time for dinner, then?” Louis asks, squeezing Harry’s hand.

                                                                                      **//**

              Louis is bubbling with laughter, giggling down into his plate as he sparks and crackles in gorgeous, bright colors, and he doesn’t need more wine, he _doesn’t_ , but he certainly does not stop the staff when a candlestick who looks like Niall but doesn’t have that silly Irish accent silently tilts the pretty green bottle against Louis’ glass, sparkling red liquid filling it only halfway, because Louis is only sipping it slowly and he feels a little better about himself when he sees only a little bit inside of the wide bulb. There is so much food in front of him, baked turkey and steamed carrots, mashed potatoes and green beans, warm, fluffy rolls and ham that Louis keeps taking more of because it’s so good. It’s all so good, and Harry is so good to him, even if, at the moment, he is so out of reach.

Harry is hard to see because Louis had been told to sit at the very end of the table the moment he’d stepped into the dining room. He’s never been before, has always been able to send quiet whispers to Harry, just for Harry, right beside him instead of having to speak up so he can be heard. He’s never eaten so far away from Harry before, has never been unable to make himself close, but it’s proper this way and he knows it, and they can admire one another from afar. It’s still nice, and Louis is still happy, and the seams of his soul are pulling with it.

“More wine then, sweets?” Harry asks him, teasing with that knowing smirk on his face, and Louis wrinkles his nose at him from across the way, breaking off another piece of his roll and eating it. Harry looks so handsome, clad in dark blue like the night sky and a blue ribbon tied in his wild hair to match. His smile is gorgeous, crooked and cracked teeth and all, and his eyes are brighter than the sun. “I thought you didn’t drink.”

“I _don’t_ ,” Louis insists, staring at the dark red wine glass and then the glass of ice water that sits beside it, the glass that Louis doesn’t drink from unless he eats some of the green beans, which have a nice spice to them that he knows Louise spent a lot of time preparing, “I’m merely…tasting it. You know, just to see if any one taste is better than the last.”

“Of course,” Harry agrees, lifting his own full wine glass.

They talk too much and not enough, about what the weather may be like tomorrow and what they’re going to do, about the latest book they read together and what the last line in the story will say. They throw endless compliments and a couple silly innuendos here and there, talk about how they wish they were closer, how Harry would link their ankles together under the table. Liam and Niall patter around the table just to make sure everything is going well, just to deliver more gravy to their turkey and potatoes if need be. They don’t talk to Harry and Louis, weirdly enough; they act like they’re not even there, and that’s fine with Louis because he feels as if this is a special time for just him and Harry, to laugh and blush and swoon with, to fall in love with.

They eat too much and not enough, and Harry belches a couple times too loudly, but Louis only laughs and covers his eyes with his hands. Louis’ mother would have a fit if Louis burped at the table, and Louise would, too, but they’re both away and Louis finds it silly, shaking his head and smiling when Harry shyly excuses himself, apologizing and nervously patting at his hair the way he does when he’s nervous. Louis tries to burp to make it even, to weigh out the embarrassment, but he only gets out a hiccup that Harry’s eyes twinkle at.

Louis clears all of the food on his plate two and a half times, until he thinks he can’t take another bite of anything or else he’ll explode, and that wouldn’t be very romantic at all. He is warm and delightedly full, rubbing his stomach as he swallows down the rest of his wine, chasing that down with a sip of water so the sugary taste isn’t still in his mouth. He peers over the massive centerpiece in the middle of the cherry wood table to see Harry wiping his mouth, his plate fairly empty, and at that, Louis slides his chair back and gets up, one hand on the table as he slowly makes his way towards Harry.

“Are you finished?” Harry asks, raising his eyebrows, and Louis grins, taking his hand and pulling him up from his seat. He takes both of his hands and reaches up on his toes to kiss Harry, who tastes savory and nice. Harry pulls his hands free eventually and holds the side of Louis’ face like Louis loves, adjusting his head so it’s tilted up higher, so he doesn’t have to stand on his toes.

“I’m finished,” Louis confirms with a nod of his head when he pulls away, lips warm and cheeks flushed. He grips the lapels of Harry’s jacket and pulls him along, walking backwards himself. “I want to dance now,” he states, “take me to the ballroom and let’s dance, yes?”

                                                                                      **//**

              Harry is swift, as if he’s been practicing, and Louis holds onto him tightly, giggling with each twirl; he feels like he is being lifted off of his toes and spun in the air, weightless, like not a thing can possibly bring him down, and this same situation tends to happen in most, if not all, of the books Louis loves to read, the books that Louis has spent his life trying to find and dreaming about; the books that are now his reality. Harry’s hands are large and weighty on Louis’ waist, though sometimes he grabs his hips, to let Louis know that they’re going to twirl again, that Louis needs to grab the lapels of Harry’s coat or wrap his arms tight around his neck so he’s got a little more support even though they both know that Harry wouldn’t let Louis fall.

The piano plays somewhere quietly, and Louis doesn’t bother to try to listen particularly well for it, because he’s not as focused on dancing to the beat as he is on having fun, as he is on looking down at his feet so he doesn’t step on Harry’s or so Harry doesn’t step on his, so they don’t get tangled together and land them on the floor. It’s good, fun, filled with giggles and corrections and a stumble here or there. When Louis’ legs tire though he wants to keep swaying, wants to keep the dancing alive, he sets his head on Harry’s chest and closes his eyes.

Harry becomes sure that he’s done something right. The petals are falling, only one hanging on, but Harry has already fallen, so right now, nothing can touch them.

                                                                                      **//**

              “Are you having a nice time?” Harry asks, handing Louis a glass of water, and Louis takes it as he sits outside on the patio, the stone ledge cool as he drinks a sip of the water and sets it beside him. He folds his arm and places them on the ledge, resting his head upon them, and he stares out at the night, where the trees sway gently and the bugs come to life, realizing that the noise of the day is gone and that it is their time to shine with the moon. It’s peaceful; the fountain in the front yard glistens, and Louis had spent an entire day trying to get it to work, doing what he could, asking who he could, if starting the water was an option. He’s proud of it, just as he is proud of the flowers that are coming into bloom, the blues and reds that Louis had asked to be picked up from the village.

“I am,” Louis responds, tapping his fingers along the stone before he lifts his head, looking over at Harry, who fidgets on his bottom as he sits on the ledge beside Louis, his own hands in his lap. He’s still beastly, and Louis knows that he hasn’t been himself in a really long time, knows that the opportunity to be his human hasn’t been brought about for a while. This is okay, because Louis still finds him handsome; he likes his rough hands because they always manage to touch his face like his skin isn’t calloused, and he likes the snarl he gets, the one he can’t help when Louis does something he doesn’t particularly like, like when Louis swings about on the ladder in the library to try to get books. He likes his tangled hair because when Louis mentions it, he can convince him to let him wash it and brush it out, and braid it up nicely so it stays neat and pretty for a little while, at least. He likes his pointy teeth because sometimes when they kiss, he nips Louis’ lip and that always makes him laugh while Harry apologizes and tries to kiss a little more safely.

Louis adores Harry, beast and all.

Harry straightens out his back and shuffles forward, a little closer to Louis, so Louis turns to face him, an unsure smile on his face, because Harry looks nervous. His hands are taken into Harry’s, and he slowly pushes his fingers in between Harry’s so they’re laced together, intertwined like the branches of all the different trees in the woods.

“Louis,” Harry exhales, and Louis has heard him say it like that many times before, on many different occasions. He’s heard it in the early morning when Harry wakes up all tangled in his blankets, and has heard it late at night when they’ve become one, when they move together like they’ve been doing it their entire lives, when Louis keeps his head in the crook of Harry’s neck and keeps his fingers pressed to Harry’s back, nails marking the flesh, when Harry rocks into him steadily and murmurs into his ear – _Louis_. He’s heard him say it like that when Louis does something dangerous, or picks little arguments with him for the sole purpose of getting him annoyed. He has heard it a lot of ways, so he is only that much more uncertain as to what is going on.

“Harry,” is all he knows to say, smiling and quirking up an eyebrow. Harry chuckles and ducks his head shyly before he picks it back up, squeezing Louis’ hands gently.

“Are you happy here, living with me?” Harry asks after taking a deep breath, and his words come out slowly like he’s afraid of asking and Louis narrows his eyes a little bit, nodding his head.

“Yes, I really am,” he responds genuinely, and that’s the truth; he loves living here, loves waking up in a big bed, loves the quiet company of the staff, of Niall and Liam and little Lux. He loves eating dinner with Harry and he loves waking up every morning knowing that he’ll see him at some point, that they’ll be able to read together or create their own stories, building off of what the other is saying. He loves all of that, but he misses his family, and the pain in his chest has only gotten a little lighter throughout these past few months. He looks back out into the woods, away from Harry’s green eyes, and he frowns a little bit, because the very last contact he had with his family was when he told Charlotte to go home, when he’d promised her that she would be fine, that he would be fine with the beast of a stranger who had every intent to leave her up in the chamber in the cold. He really enjoys living here with Harry, but he yearns for his family.

“What is it?” Harry asks, his grip getting looser around Louis’ hands like he’s about to pull himself away, like he feels as if he’s done something wrong, so Louis holds on a bit tighter and looks to Harry once more, inhaling deeply and letting it out through his nose.

“I–” he starts, and then he turns his eyes down again to the pretty fabric of his suit, “I wish I could see my family again, is all,” he murmurs. He hasn’t brought them up in a long while, and he’s got very little idea as to how Harry is going to react to it, but he keeps talking, because Harry likes it when Louis is truthful with him. “I really miss them, and I’m sure they’re okay, but I don’t have any way to know, to see how they are. I wish I could see them, just for a moment.”

Harry stays quiet for a long time, and then he lifts Louis’ hands to his mouth and kisses his knuckles, pecks each one with gentle, plush lips. When Louis pulls them back, smiling softly with a blush coating his cheeks, Harry has a smile as well, small, but bright; beautiful.

“Come with me, my love,” he says softly.


	14. XIII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a new chapter! I hope you all enjoy and very special thanks to Skylar (you know who you are if you read this) because you're a very nice pal and you're great to talk to! Also, thanks to anyone who's given kudos, bookmarked, or commented for this fic; it truly, truly means a lot to me! On that note, happy reading and I'd love to hear what you have to say! x.

              Harry doesn’t know what he is doing.

He doesn’t, not at all, but he does know that he loves Louis too much for words and much more than what he could ever show with kissing or sex or gentle touches directly before falling asleep and directly after waking up. He knows that doing this for Louis, making him happy, healing the sadness, is all that he wants to do for the rest of his life, until the very day he dies. He hadn’t had the chance to tell Louis that he loves him so dearly; that hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but that’s okay. Right now that is in the very back of his mind because what he wants to do right now, what he _needs_ to do right now, is make sure that Louis is okay, that he is satisfied.

“Where’re we going?” Louis asks him, his tone laced with a bit of a nervous giggle as Harry guides them down the dark corridors. It’s hard to admit how he’s feeling, Harry knows that firsthand, so he understands and doesn’t push. Harry keeps Louis’ hand in his, and after a few more steps, he stops walking, turns to face him, and presses him ever-so-gently back against the cool wall. He crowds in on him closely, his free hand cupping his cheek. “Hazza,” Louis chirps, pressing his free hand to Harry’s chest, “what’re you doin’, H? You’re being silly, Beasty.”

Harry leans in to kiss him slowly and sweetly like it’s the very last time he’ll be able to do so, and maybe it is, because his heart hurts like he knows Louis’ does, like Louis’ has been for the past four months, and he never would have even thought about doing what he is a few steps away from doing now. So he kisses Louis gingerly, continuing to hold his hand, and Louis kisses him back, which never ceases to startle Harry a little bit, because he knows what he is doing and he kisses like Harry is delicate, like he’ll fall apart with too much pressure. He’s not _afraid_ , can and does give him wet kisses that Harry has to wipe his mouth after and loud ones that are always, _always_ followed by a bright laugh, but Louis knows to give him a little kiss, a deep one where their teeth clash just once and they taste their wine on their tongues.

“I’m going to give you something,” Harry tells him when he draws away, brushing his thumb along Louis’ cheek when he seems to lean forward to chase his lips, and he delivers another quick kiss to Louis’ mouth before he takes him off the wall and leads him back towards his room, up the grand staircase quickly, giving Louis time to trot up them because he can’t quite skip steps as well as Harry can.

“N-no sex, I’m not in the mood for sex, though it’s sweet of you,” Louis says timidly, and once they’re up the staircase, Harry looks to him with a smile, shaking his head. Louis, his boy, is an utter sweetheart, a shy small-town boy who hasn’t had sex before coming here and who adores the intimacy of it more than he does the feeling of it. They’ve had sex just a handful of times, enough to count on just one hand, but tonight hasn’t been about winding up in bed at the end of the night, even though if Louis had suggested it, if he’d asked for it, then Harry wouldn’t hesitate to give it to him. But, no, Harry isn’t going to take him to have sex. “No?” Louis says next, and Harry shakes his head again, taking him down the wing to his bedroom. He lights a candle using one of the matches that sits on his dresser so it’s not completely dark, and he heads over to the felt covered table he has in the corner, and he very clearly remembers catching Louis in here that one time, remembers causing him to run off and get himself into trouble in the woods. He knows that Louis remembers it too, at least a little bit, because he staggers on his feet like he doesn’t want to be in here, and when Harry lets go of his hand so he can pull the blanket off, he starts pulling at his own fingers nervously.

The room is cast in a pink glow when Harry pulls off the blanket, and there is the large rose with the long, dark green stem, twirling in its glass, fallen petals wrinkling up at the bottom while the one good petal hangs on. Harry just needs it to wait a little longer, a day or two; he’ll say he loves Louis at the next possible moment, and Louis maybe Louis will say it back if all goes well, and the curse will be broken and they’ll be – happy. Harry isn’t worrying about that, though, as he picks up the glass mirror, holding it up for Louis to see, the weight of it nice in his hands.

“You can look at whatever you want, with this,” Harry explains, turning it in his hand gently. “Including your family, like you want.” He clears his throat, thrusting the mirror out to Louis. “Please, have a look.” Louis smiles up at him and it’s one of the most gorgeous things Harry has ever seen, so he can’t help but to give him a smile in return, even when Louis takes the mirror from him and looks into it, licking his coral lips.

“Show me my mother, please,” he asks, his eyes flitting to Harry only once, and Harry nods his head encouragingly, though his heart breaks. He takes a single step back so he’s not in Louis’ face, so he can give Louis the illusion that he’s got at least a little privacy even though he’ll be able to hear every sound, every word spoken. “My baby sisters too.”

The frame of the mirror glows, and Harry looks down at his feet, closing his eyes for a long moment. He opens them when Louis gasps, and sees him with his hand covering his mouth.

                                                                                      **//**

              _Charlotte brings in soup for her mother, who is sat up in her bed, her ball of yarn and half of a knitted sweater in her lap, though the needles sit in her lap, untouched, while she stares at it. She is ill, with dark circles under her eyes and shaking hands as she takes the soup from her daughter, and Charlotte quickly steps back from the room, clasping her hands tightly together, because all she wants to do is comfort her, hold her, kiss her cheek and promise that she’s bound to get better very soon. This makes Jay frown, but there’s nothing that can be helped, because the very last thing she wants for her daughters is to get sick while she is still under the weather, and when she can’t even get out of bed without a struggle, then there is no way she would be able to help her children._

_Jay is ill, and it’s hard juggling four other girls who need to be told what to do and what to get from the store, how quickly they need to get home at the end of the day, but Charlotte is doing the best she can, making watery soup that isn’t nearly as good as their mum’s, but it tastes okay with the bread she gets from the bakery on a discount. She has been sick for a while, coming up on a couple of weeks now, and some days are better than others but it’s all tough and the village knows it; their classmates send love from their parents and food that the girls try to make last, because surely Jay would enjoy something more than soup and bread from time to time. Mothers come over to keep track of them when they can, as does the nice lady from the trade shop, but that can be hard when they’ve got families and jobs to be tending to, so Charlotte doesn’t complain when they have to depart and he urges the girls not to, as well._

_Jay’s health isn’t any better with how badly she is grieving, with no idea as to whether or not Louis is even alive, and she can get by the urge to go out into the dangerous woods, as well as pestering the town with it, if she puts herself to work by helping other sick and injured kids and adults, but now she cannot do much more than sit here and think about her son, her only son, her eldest baby, her very first. Her good boy, her quiet, strong young man, who is now in the hands of the woods, or someone she can only hope isn’t torturing him._

_Jay looks down into the soup, murky and brown with chunks of slightly undercooked vegetables, and before she can grasp the spoon to take a sip, something catches in her throat and she succumbs to a bout of violent coughing, holding a hand to her chest as it hurts, as her shoulders tense up and her eyes water. In an instant, like every time, Charlotte is back at the door, looking in helplessly, because everything she knows to do is not working, and Jay gets cross when she comes too close, scolds her and makes herself cough even more. From behind her, one of the twins pokes her head through and chews at her lip, which is dry and cracked because she doesn’t know where her mother puts the moisturizing gel and she’s too afraid to ask, is too afraid to look at her sick mother._

_“Mama?” Charlotte asks when Jay settles down, and Jay shakes her head, setting her soup on the bedside table and laying down. It’s hard to breathe when she does, but she needs the rest, or she’ll be aching too much to do much of anything._

_She needs Louis; they all do._

**//**

 

Louis is crying by the time he pulls the mirror away from his face, and his eyes are swollen and hot and he can’t stop rubbing them, can’t keep back a sob, because he knows what he can do, what he can get, to make his mother feel better, even if only a little, and she is so ill; he needs his help. His hands are shaking, but he holds the mirror carefully anyway, tightly, to his chest as he looks up at Harry, wiping his cheek on his shoulder. “Harry, my mum, she’s ill,” he chokes out, though he’d been able to hear the sounds, the coughing and Daisy’s little, worried ‘ _Mama?_ ’, so he doesn’t doubt that Harry had an idea prior. “I need to help her, she’ll only get w-worse; Lottie doesn’t know what t’do and Mum’s the best doctor in town, so no one else knows. Harry, I’ve got to go help her, p-please.”

Louis tries to stop crying, but he’s terrified, sad, because he hadn’t been their earlier when the illness started and he isn’t there now when she’s losing weight and can hardly move. He looks to Harry desperately, because he needs him to say that it’s okay, because Louis is tied to him and he doesn’t know if he can go on his own and have Harry’s disappointment hanging on his shoulders, even if this is his own mother. He needs to be let go, even though he’s gotten so used to hanging around, so use to holding onto Harry for everything including his happiness. “Please,” Louis gasps out, and it gets stuck in his throat, leaves him sobbing again, hurting his throat. He doesn’t want to leave and have Harry angry with him. “Please.”

“Go, Louis,” Harry says, and it’s soft rather than harsh, which catches Louis off guard. It surprises him so much that he stops crying and freezes up, continuing the cradle the mirror to his chest, the cold glass pressing into the small patch of skin around his collarbones that his shirt and blazer don’t cover up. “You’re- you can go home, you’re not- you’re not my prisoner anymore, Louis.” This pains Harry, Louis can tell, but Louis needs this just like his family needs Louis. The word ‘prisoner’ is something he doesn’t like, for he hasn’t felt like one for months and has considered this place his home rather than a jail of some fashion, but he can’t comment on that because Harry is letting him _go –_ so easily. He’s being easy, and Louis has mixed feelings about that, too. “You’re free. Go.”

“Thank you,” Louis says after a quiet moment, wiping his eyes while he hiccups, and he reaches out to give Harry the mirror. He has no idea how he is going to get through the woods if he couldn’t do it the first time on his own, but he will find a way, will use the thought of his poorly mother to direct him through the brush and tall grass. “Thank you, thank- here, thank you for this, I will–”

“Keep it,” Harry whispers, pushing it back towards Louis before pulling away like the touch had burned him. “Um, take it, so you can always look into it when you’re back home, and find me. If you’d wish to. And bundle up in case you get cold, and take Liam and Niall with you; they’ll be there with you to make sure you get back safely. Take a horse. They know where to go, and you’ll- you’ll get there quickly.”

Louis is overwhelmed, he truly is, but he nods his head and takes a few quick steps forward, pressing his lips to Harry’s in a hasty kiss that Harry doesn’t really respond to. He tastes salt on his own lips, from his own tears, and when he pulls away, he touches Harry’s cheek before taking of. He grabs every article of clothing he can find from the rack that sits beside the door, slipping it on messily, tying his scarf too tight around his throat and only fastening the middle button on his coat so it hangs off of his shoulders. He calls for Liam and Niall, who rush to him, and he tells them both that he has to go home and that Harry has let him go, that he promises that he is telling the truth but he doesn’t have the time for either of them to go up and confirm. They exchange a look before Louis rushes them on, out the door, and while Louis is trotting away on the horse with the mirror tucked securely into the pocket of his coat, he hears Harry yelling from the top of his castle, out the window, screaming, grieving.

“Oh my,” Liam says worriedly as he thumps against Louis’ back, hanging on as tightly as he can. Louis starts to cry again and his tears blur the vision of the woods, turning it into a murky pool of dark colors instead of the pretty ones he’d constantly seen at the castle.

                                                                                      **//**

              Louis gets to the village in a little under twenty minutes, just lets the horse take him and lets Niall tell him which way to turn. When he gets to the entrance of the town, he slips off of his horse and ties her up by the reigns onto a branch of a nearby tree, to let her rest and to let Niall and Liam get off unnoticed. He’s home, finally, and it’s so _strange_ to be here, but it’s his home and his family is just down the road, so he is a lot less worried. He is home, or is supposed to be, though something is missing deep in his chest that he can’t clear up.

He takes his scarf off because he’s a little sweaty, bunching it up in his hand as he makes a quick walk past the shops and houses, where the people he grew up around are sound asleep, unbothered, just as they are supposed to be. He passes the book shop but doesn’t make a stop, heading straight to the other end of the woods, towards the cottage that is tucked away and where his family is at. He’s quiet but quick, feet crunching along the gravel, and his walk goes undisturbed until he passes the pub and is blocked by a swarm of men, belching and chucking to themselves as they stumble out from the bar. Louis can’t get past them with any subtleness, so he puts his head down and hopes that they’re too drunk and silly to pay him any mind. He is called out just a moment later, however, with a loud, smashed, and very rude ‘hey!’, and Louis can’t help but to pick up his head just to frown.

He can’t place the source of the voice, but someone is clearly able to place his own face. They’re all watching him, and Louis doesn’t have the time nor patience for this, but these men are all older and Louis hadn’t been brought up to turn off without excusing himself, especially around men, some of the same men whom he’d needed for support when his own father passed away. “Shit, holy fuck,” the man shouts, and then there’s a bit of shoving around, and Louis shifts anxiously on his feet. “Z. Zayn, that’s your boy! Louis? Yeah!”

Sure enough, Zayn comes out of the pub, stumbling down the steps with his gun thrown onto his back like it always is. He hasn’t changed; he looks exactly the same as Louis remembers, with broad shoulders and a thin frame, with dark facial hair and smoldering eyes. He burps behind his fist and then pushes past the grown men around him before shoving his hands into his pockets. “Louis, what the fuck are you doing here?” Zayn asks, his voice rough, and he doesn’t stop walking until he’s in front of Louis, a hand around his waist as he tugs him in towards his chest with a quick force that trips Louis up. His fingers grip the back of Louis’ coat, his eyes heavy as they scan his face and frame. “You’ve been gone for ages, where the hell have you been? Why are you all dressed up? Ah, c’mon, give me a kiss for the boys–”

“No. Zayn, _no_ ,” Louis says, exasperated, and he tosses the scarf in Zayn’s face before pulling himself out of his grasp. His hold wasn’t the same as Harry’s; Harry always held him tenderly; his fingers always brushed along his back, and he was soft, and Zayn is drunk and wants to show off for the men who look up to him only because he’s got money and an expensive gun they may have a chance to shoot if they play nicely enough. It’s not the same, holds much less of the care Louis yearns for, the care he feels from Harry, and it’s much more terrible in comparison. Louis is appalled as well as incredulous, shaking, as he looks back to the horse, where Liam and Niall are helping one another off of the animal and back behind the tree. He glances back at Zayn and inhales a deep breath. “I need to go, my mum is ill, you know that. I’ve got to help her. Excuse me, get out of my way.”

Louis leaves without waiting for another word to or from Zayn or any of the men around him, though he hears him shouting as he leaves, and he goes at a run because he wants to get home quickly and because he knows Zayn isn’t one to literally chase after him. He’s at his home within minutes, breathless with his heart painfully pounding in his chest. He opens the door, and Rover gets to barking from where he is sitting inside the house, on the welcome mat. Louis is quick to hush him with a hand rubbing between his ears, and he crouches down, kissing the top of his nose. “It’s me, Rove,” he murmurs, “it’s Lou, remember me?” His dog whimpers, tail wagging, and Louis chuckles, giving his head another scratch before he stands back up, squinting around. “Good boy, go back to bed,” he murmurs. “I’m going to check on our girls, alright? Everything’s okay. I’m home.”

Rover whines yet again, and Louis sits him down before finding a candle to light, and as the flame flickers, he looks around. Nothing has changed, really; a few of Louis’ younger sisters have toys that are scattered about, shoved up under the rocking chair and beside the wicker basket full of yarn that their mother has. It’s quiet, still, and Louis takes off his shoes before heading down the hallway.

He peeks in on his sisters sleeping, two to each of the medium-sized beds that sit on each wall, and he decides to let them get their rest because they’re probably exhausted. He is silent as he makes his way further down the hall, the mirror heavy and cool in his pocket, and when he gets to his mother’s room, he pulls his shirt up over his mouth like it’ll help in any way as he enters.

“Mama,” he says quietly, sitting on the edge of her bed. He places the candle a little ways in front of her, so he can see her, and she’s sleeping so calmly that, for a moment, Louis thinks that she’s passed, and for a fleeting second, his world crumbles down around him and he reaches out to shake her leg. She startles, inhales deeply and lets it out with a gut-wrenching cough, sitting up the best she can in her disoriented haste, even though Louis quickly sets the candle on the night table and eases her back down.

“Charlotte, leave, you can’t–” his mother starts with a hoarse voice and weary eyes, but, with a weak smile, Louis soothes a hand down over her dark, tangled hair, hushing her.

“It’s Louis, Mummy,” he says while his shirt falls down from over his mouth, and his smile grows because for the longest time, he didn’t really think he’d ever see his mother again, much less speak to her. He wants to hug her, wants to kiss her, but no matter how long it has been since they’ve seen one another, Jay will still refuse to let Louis get too close for the fear of getting sick and Louis understands that. She opens her eyes a little wider, and then lifts a frail hand to rub at them, and Louis shuffles just a few inches closer so she can see, so she doesn’t think she’s hallucinating, which Louis is sure is something she has probably already done. “I’m home, Mum, and I’m going to take care of you. I’m home and I’m okay, perfectly fine, and I’m here now.”

“Louis,” Jay whispers, moving to sit up again, and this time, Louis helps her up, letting her touch him so she knows that he is real, that he is really back. She blinks at him for a long moment, coughing a little bit, and then she smiles, gripping Louis’ hands. She smiles so widely, and Louis smiles back, tears pooling in his eyes again. “Louis, my son, my baby boy,” she grates out, and Louis nods, squeezing her hands before letting go.

“The girls are asleep,” he says, standing up, “it’s very late; you must sleep for a few more hours, because I know you’re exhausted. I’m going to be here the moment you get up so I can take care of you and make you well again, alright? I’ll get you the medicine you need and I’ll make a broth and tea with lots of mint, does that sound good?” He doesn’t wait for an answer as he helps her back into bed, pulling the bed sheets up close to her so she stays warm and stops trembling. He smooths down her hair again before leaving the room and heading to the bathroom, where he soaks a cloth with cool water, leaving it fairly damp and only wringing it out a little bit before he carries it back to her bedroom, draping it over her eyes and forehead. Her eyes stay open, a smile remaining on her face, though it drops as she slips back into sleep again. “Goodnight, Mum,” he whispers, “I’ll see you very soon.”

He leaves, washes his hands and wrists well in the bathroom, and then he heads for his bedroom, familiarizing himself with the small space, the many books, the stiff bed mattress. He sits on his bed, keeping his feet on the floor, and he pulls out his mirror, turning it in his hands. He holds it up to his face, studies his own reflection for a moment, and then he clears his throat.

“Show me Liam and Niall, please?” he says, unsure,

The frame lights up again like it had at the castle, warm in his hands. His reflection shimmers.

 _“He’s got to be at home now, with his mum and sisters,” Liam says, and there is that same nervous tone in his voice, the same one that always went ‘_ oh, Harry’s not going to like that’ _or_ ‘be more careful, Louis, please’ _. It’s hard to see out in the dark, and he certainly can’t spot out a thing from his low positon on the ground other than the tree roots that poke up through the dirt. Niall cannot spark his flames because that would look too obvious, too suspicious, so they both remain hidden behind the tree, near Louis’ horse, who stomps her hooves in annoyance._

 _“We saw him run off; he knows how to get home, Li,” Niall sighs, hopping around in a pace. He doesn’t understand, but he hadn’t had the time to process it, not when Louis had been so disoriented, so in need. At this point, Niall will do anything for Louis, as will Liam. They all adore Louis, but Harry has the love that no one else can give him, that no one else even dares to try to give him, which is why Niall is so taken aback by Harry letting him leave. “We should just go home, Harry is probably livid,_ mon Dieu _, I can’t believe- after all of this time- we were so close, and now–”_

_Niall is cut off by the sound of stomping feet, much louder than the horse’s hooves, and lots of shouting that is much too loud for this hour. The ground seems to shake, and Liam is toppled over and he crawls further behind the tree, dragging Niall along with him. The shouting grows louder, and the footsteps heavier, as dirt rises up into dust that blinds them. There are the lights of torches above their heads. Before long, the horse is whinnying, kicking her legs. Zayn’s voice can be made out on top of all of the other voices._

_“There was rainfall just a while ago, lads. We’ll follow her prints and see where she came from, and we’ll kill whoever it was who kept him locked up, and then I’m going to fucking make Louis_ mine _.”_

Louis pulls the mirror away from his face and stands up, standing in his doorway and looking around. Everything remains still, meanwhile he is shaken up, his face hot and his skin going cold, hair raising along the back of his neck and on his arms. He heads down the hall to the living room, crouching down to pet Rover again as he snoozes.

“S-show me Harry, please,” he whispers, reaching for his shoes.

 _“Fuck, fucking_ Hell _!” Harry shouts, and he throws an already splintered chair across his room. He is heaving, his suit wrinkled, his eyes wild. He storms about, destroying nearly everything in his way, though after a few long, painful minutes, he sinks to his knees, and he cries. He is gone, Louis is gone, and Harry is so unsure as to whether or not he is coming back that he doesn’t even want to think about it, doesn’t want to put himself through that pain. And why would Louis want to come back, when he’s got everything he’d wanted for the past four months? He wants his family, his ill mother and his helpless sisters, and Harry had to let him go because he knows that Louis would never, ever be the same if something were to happen to them._

_Harry cries harder than–_

Louis pulls away the mirror again, his heart beating in his ears, and he rises to his feet to slip on his shoes, sighing when Rover lifts his head. “Zayn. Show me Zayn,” he says shakily. The mirror glimmers.

_Zayn hurries through the forest, jerking on the horse’s reigns harshly, and his posse of men run quickly behind him, nearly tripping over one another as they try to catch up. They’re all fast, overwhelmingly so despite the fact that their faces have sunk with their drunkenness, and they shout loudly, yell the meanest, most gruesome things. They wield torches and guns, daggers tied to their hips. They’re fast. They’re loud. They’re violent._

_They’re yelling about Harry._

“Stop,” Louis grits out, and the mirror abruptly fades to show only his reflection. He sees his own scared face, the crease between his eyebrows, his swollen eyes. He tucks the mirror back into his pocket and fastens his shoes up tightly around his feet, because he’ll have to run and he doesn’t want the laces to come undone. His mother knows he is home and he will be back, he will, he _swears_ on everything he’s ever loved, but he’s not going to let Zayn touch Harry because then there will be no point in coming back, not really.


	15. XIV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii, it's me again. Here's a typical excuse for my absence: school. And I am very, truly sorry from the bottom of my heart, however I am back and this story is coming to an end :) I hope all of you are doing well, and I hope you enjoy xx.

              Harry is completely numb, walking along the long, dark hallways of his house, his mess of a room having been left behind, everything utterly scathed save for the rose, which still sits in its protective glass, twirling, just barely hanging on. He has lost his knowledge of what the point is towards keeping the rose, why he doesn’t give up and destroy it, because it’s over, it has to be, because no one in their right mind would choose him over their family, especially when their mother is ill, _especially_ when Harry had brought them here, kept him here, against his will in the very first place. Regardless, he’s got something gnawing at the very back of his head, telling him to wait, that, if he lets it go out on its own, he can at least feel the sense of having done all that he could, that he’d waited until the very end.

The walls are bare like they’ve always been, but this time they are _bare_ , without any color or meaning, no small fingers tiptoeing along them, no lyrics bouncing off of them like they did whenever Louis would sing. The halls are empty, with no blue and pink, merely dark and sad. The staff keeps their distance, hiding back in rooms, afraid to say anything, afraid to approach, and that causes Harry to sink even lower, because he no longer sees any difference at all between how things are now and how they were months ago. Months ago, Harry didn’t know what love was, and now he is stripped of it, and he has no idea whether or not Louis even _knows_.

Louise stays back in one of the empty rooms and keeps Lux behind her, watching along with everyone else as Harry walks, running his hand along the bannister on the staircase, feeling Louis’ touch burning his skin from when he had walked down these same steps, as beautiful as ever. When he gets downstairs, he doesn’t even glance down the hallway where Louis’ bedroom is, because he knows that will be the worst to face, and that he probably cannot go down there again. There is no doubt that it smells like him, and that the air tastes like him; his bed – _both_ of their beds – hold hours of kissing, of sex and the pillow talk that occurred afterwards if they weren’t too breathless and in love.

Louis is gone, having taken everything with him. He’s taken away the warmth that Harry feels every night when he knows that Louis is sleeping soundly in his bed, bundled up and comfortable. He’s taken Harry’s heart, which had gotten big enough to overwhelm his entire body, and now that it’s been torn out, he’s left with his chest wide open and his body hollow. He’s taken every ounce of emotion Harry has, and now he is just numb. Louis will be happy now, though, which Harry hangs onto like how the rose hangs on to its last petal. He will be at home, and his mother will get better, because Louis is just one to do that. He makes people better.

Harry is heading towards the kitchen for any and every old bottle of whiskey he can find when there is a heavy thud on the door, and Harry rolls his eyes, an ugly snarl on his lips that he feels throughout the rest of him. He feels ugly, hideous and unapproachable, as if he is worse off now than ever before. It’s probably Liam and Niall at the door, meaning they’ve gotten home safely and that Louis is okay and at home, which Harry is grateful for, if nothing else. Harry can’t bear to look at them, however, can’t bear to see their sympathetic faces and sad, round eyes, so they’ll have to find their own way in, for Harry completely ignores it and continues his trek down to the kitchen.

He hears the banging twice more by the time he gets to the kitchen, persistent, and he throws a bottle at the wall with a growl.

                                                                                      **//**

              Louis doesn’t stop running. His feet hurt, and his face stings from all of the branches and leaves that slap against it when he cuts through the trees, but at least he has an idea as to where he is going because he’s got Liam and Niall toddling after him, shouting at him, telling him where to turn, a chorus of ‘ _right!_ ’ and ‘ _no,_ left _; don’t confuse him, you ninny!_ ’ that occasionally causes Louis to skid to his feet and turn around so they can get their acts together, so they can give him the information that won’t end up with them lost. He’d picked them up when he had left his home, had caught them making their way around a tree root in their own slow attempt of getting home. They’d been surprised, as shocked as they had been when Louis was leaving the castle, but, like before, Louis hadn’t had the time to explain, and he hadn’t given them much context except for the fact that he needed to get to Harry. They’d listened, and Niall had lit the way until Louis took it upon himself to start running because they weren’t as fast as they needed to be.

Louis can tell that nothing has changed when he gets to the castle, and he hadn’t expected it to, because it’s only been a short time even though it feels like ages since he’d left, since he’d gotten home, since he’d seen his sisters fast asleep and since he’d promised his return to his ailing mother. The fountain still runs, bubbling and pretty, and the moon shines, so while Louis catches his breath, stepping over the last few tree roots and wiping his forehead, he looks around.

The same horse that Zayn had been on has been let go in the garden, and she’s eating the grass, making her way to the flowers that Louis just hopes she doesn’t take a liking towards. It’s dark, but when Louis looks towards the large double doors that serve as the front doors of the house, he spots Zayn and his friends, holding their torches and shouting. There are roughly ten of them, give or take, and they’re all big, while some are tall and some are short. They’re angry, hitting the doors and throwing their shoulders into them, and Louis wonders where Harry is, why he isn’t answering, if he’s okay.

“Fuck,” Niall breathes when he catches up, and Louis looks down towards him, shaking his head.

“Stay here with Liam, so you’ll be safer,” he whispers, and he squats down to kiss the cold metal of what would be, or should be, Niall’s face. Niall gives him a sad look. He takes the mirror out of his pocket and places it on the ground beside him. “Please, watch over this, too. Harry gave it to me, you know.”

“Be careful, Louis,” Niall whispers around the same time that Liam hobbles forward, complaining quietly under his breath while he brushes twigs off of him. The hands on his face tick quickly, which Louis guesses is the equivalent to him being completely out of breath.

Louis stands up without a response, and then he walks forward, across the stone walkway. When there’s a bang on the door again, and when the handles rattle and the door sounds like it’s splitting, he picks up at a run. “Zayn!” he shouts, his voice already snapping right through the word. His feet are hard on the concrete, painful on his heels, and his clothes are dirty and messy, hanging off of him, but he still doesn’t stop. “Zayn, stop it, you need to leave!”

“This is where he’s had you?” Zayn asks, ignoring Louis’ pleas as he pushes through his swarm of followers again. He stands high and mighty, and Louis’ always felt small compared to him, compared to all of them, but he steps forward and pushes his chest, squeaking when Zayn grabs his wrist and tugs him back, holding his arm up in the air, pulling at Louis’ shoulder. “He’s in there?” he asks with a little more edge, a little more harshness, and Louis shakes his head, yanking his arm.

“Don’t go in there, don’t touch him,” he murmurs, eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed down low. “He didn’t do anything wrong, he’s just–”

“–the monster your sister was going on about?” Zayn interrupts, fingers tightening around Louis’ wrist. He’s smirking, and Louis is hurting, his eyes glazing over with warm tears that burn like the fire that the men watching him hold. He continues to pull at his arm, but Zayn holds on tightly. “The monster that some of my men were talking about seeing the last time they saw you, too?” he asks, his voice getting louder.

“You- you didn’t even come looking for me, so why do you care now?” Louis stutters, wiping his eyes with the wrist that isn’t being held up painfully. For a moment, he stops pulling, because he is tired. His legs and ankles hurt, his shoulders and head; his heart feels like it’s about to explode right inside of his chest. “I want you to leave. I don’t need your help. I’m okay.”

Thunder rumbles in the distance around the same time that Zayn laughs, pulling Louis closer to him. It doesn’t feel right to be this close to someone, not another man; Louis is supposed to be close to Harry like this, and only him. He feels like he is doing something wrong, something bad, something Harry doesn’t deserve. “No one believed your immature sisters,” he scoffs, and Louis swallows, sniffs, “and I thought my men were just being clueless shits. Why don’t you want us to go in there? He’s had you here for nearly half of a fucking year! What does he mean to you?”

 _Everything_ is the first word that Louis hears in his head, loud and bouncing off the walls of his throbbing skull. Harry has been the reason that Louis woke up every morning for the past four months, the reason he never wanted to go to bed at night. He’s the reason why Louis is crying right now, the reason why he’d found his way back to the castle just a few minutes ago. Harry is all Louis knows, all six feet of him, all of his sharp teeth and curly hair when he’s his person, tangled, matted hair when he’s his beast, all of his long fingers and hairy legs. He’s the only one that Louis has kissed and the only one he can imagine himself kissing, the only one he has had sex with and the only one he wants to let see him naked and vulnerable, the only one who Louis wants to pull his arms away from his bare chest and kiss him until he relaxes. He brings Louis the colors of spring every morning over a breakfast of biscuits with honey and giggles into their tea, and he brings him the shadows during the night, but he doesn’t make them scary, makes them fun and curious. He’s the one who reads with him and he’s the one who comments when he doesn’t get it, grinning when Louis goes into a lengthy explanation as to what exactly is happening, why the male or female is feeling this way. Harry is all that Louis has ever wanted, and now he has him, and he doesn’t want to let him go.

“He- his name is Harry,” Louis whimpers, pulling his hand free from Zayn’s grip with a final pull and cradling it to his chest, his wrist agonizingly aching. “He’s my…he’s my friend, and I don’t want you hurt him.”

Zayn laughs, and, awkwardly, so do the men around him, causing Louis to duck his head, embarrassed. Zayn reaches out to touch Louis’ hair, and when Louis slaps his hand away, Zayn pushes him with a growl that rumbles in his throat, leaving Louis to stumble back, to land on his bottom on the concrete. “I’m not going to hurt him, Louis, don’t worry,” he spits, “I’m going to kill him.”

Louis screams; he screams because one of the men, a tall one with bushy blonde hair, grabs him and jerks him to his feet before he holds him back, tugging his arms back behind him and dragging him away from Zayn and the door. He screams because the door finally gives in with the force of all of the bodies and feet slamming against it. He screams because he wants Harry to hear something, _do_ something, so he stays alive, because Louis needs him.

                                                                                      **//**

              It all happens quickly, faster than Harry would have thought, and he is able to tune out all of the noise with each sip of burning whiskey until the door opens up and a chorus of more screaming men than Harry has ever heard storms through, effectively pulling Harry out of his clouded mind and away from the opening of his alcohol. He roars because that’s his first instinct; it’s not Liam or Niall coming in, and it certainly isn’t Louis, and he hasn’t heard anything so obnoxious in his life. Never mind the fact that his home is being trespassed; he is annoyed, and upset, and _angry_.

“Get the fuck out of here!” Harry bellows before he even sees anyone, leaving the kitchen and pushing chairs out of the way as he storms out of the dining room. He is in the foyer in moments, and groups of men are charging at him, their torches distracting Harry, because he doesn’t want anything to catch on fire and he doesn’t want anyone to be afraid, because he knows that the staff should be sleeping at this point, or still cleaning up. He dodges for a little while, swiping torches out of the men’s hands and smothering out the flames with his foot when the fire hits the ground, smoke filling the air, the smell of burning leather clouding Harry’s nose.

“Kill the beast!” they shout, loudly and without any rhythm, and this makes Harry angrier, causes his hands to close tightly around the throats he is able to grasp immediately. Rough nails scratch at his hands while other men pull out their knives, and Harry throws them down and marvels at the cracking he may or may not actually hear, though by the way the men don’t move much once they’ve hit the carpet, Harry thinks they won’t be back up again any time soon. He swings his arms, shouts, defends his empty home the same way he had defended Louis.

“Louis?” Harry calls, looking around him frantically, and he sees nothing but torches and angry men, who are drunk, which makes them a little clumsier, and their clumsiness makes them a little easier to ward off. He looks towards the doors that had been busted open, out towards the outside, and he sees two little bodies, one that is flailing around in the shadows, and the other that is still, strong, growling loud enough for Harry to hear from inside.

“Harry!” Louis calls back, and it isn’t long before Harry’s vision turns red and he throws nearby vases, desks, stools at the people who come near him, knocking them down, breaking the wrists he grabs when they manage to get close enough to hit him, crushing noses, growling when they groan in pain, cursing. Louis doesn’t like cursing. The part of his head that isn’t clouded by anger, the small, overpowered part, is glad that Louis is here, that he had come back. Had he come back for Harry? “Harry!” Louis shouts again, and Harry can hear him crying; it’s the only thing that Harry can hear before long. He’s _wailing_ , as if he’s hurting, but he continues to shout Harry’s name to get his attention. “Harry! _Zayn_! Zayn!”

“ _Who_ \- I don’t know who Zayn _is_ , Louis!” Harry says in frustration, knocking another man to his feet and kicking him in the side, and he can only remember Zayn as the man who Louis hasn’t ever been fond of; Zayn, the man who’s all dark and gave Louis a shitty present for his birthday and wanted to be with him while Louis just wanted to read. Harry looks around, and men are rolling around on the ground clutching different body parts, except for one, who walks around the bodies, twirling a knife in his hand. He sees the dark hair, the eyes, the overall bastard look with the gun strapped onto his back. Why he has the knife instead of the gun, Harry doesn’t know, but he’s much too angry to be playful and ask why Zayn is such the pussyfoot, not when he hears Louis crying from outside, writhing against whoever is holding him.

“You really are fucking hideous,” Zayn barks, and Harry rolls his eyes, rubbing his knuckles and kicking the man on the ground who stirs and groans too loudly. His skin burns in a few places, his suit having torn with the force of a knife and his skin cut, bleeding, running down his arm. It hurts, but he has enough adrenaline for it to feel fine, like nothing more than a sting. “Louis calls you his friend, the fucking child, eh? I personally don’t see it. It’d be Hell staying here with you if it were me.”

If it’d been Zayn who’d stumbled upon his castle, Harry would have truly ended his life, but Harry decides against correcting him. “Leave him alone,” he grumbles instead, and when the sky breaks with lightening outside, it starts to rain, and Louis squeals, though it’s not the same squeal that he gets when Harry tickles him. His voice is raw when he squeals this time, rough from sobbing, which he continues to do. “Don’t call him a _fucking_ child,” he warns, “and you’ve no idea how things have been around here.”

“I know how they’re going to be from now on,” Zayn says like he’s so sure, his voice low, a teasing pout to his lips. He lifts his chin as he looks around, though his eyes settle back onto Harry in a matter of moments. “I’m going to kill you and Louis is going to come to his goddamn senses, and then I think we’ll live…here.”

In an instant, Zayn is coming towards Harry, and he isn’t as drunk, definitely not, so he’s quicker and here one moment, there the next. It’s a quick fight, as they stumble around the bodies around them, tripping and swearing, breathing heavily in one another’s faces. Harry gets a hand around Zayn’s throat, and at the same time, there is a stab into Harry’s torso, right underneath his ribs. There’s another one in the same spot immediately after, followed by a drag as pain cuts through his middle, and Harry doubles over, grabbing Zayn’s right hand in one of his own and twisting it.

Zayn yelps as well as he can with Harry’s free hand around his throat, and he still manages to smirk, because Harry can only wrench the knife free from Zayn’s grasp, can only glance at the blood on it, before it crashes to the floor and Harry has to grab his side.

“Get out, get the _fuck out_!” Harry gasps, fist closing around Zayn’s neck, and he splutters, coughs, and scratches at Harry’s already reddened wrists. His eyes close and his face turns blue, and Harry waits a second longer before he throws Zayn onto the ground, kicking his ribs, and getting on his knees to hit him. He hits him and he yells, his vision black around the edges as tears pool his eyes, and everything else is red, though part of it may be Zayn’s blood, maybe some of his own, because the hand that is on his side is wet with something thick.

He comes to a stop when Zayn is knocked unconscious, rolling him over so he’s on his face, and then he sits back on his knees, pressing his palm into his side again, a little harder. When he pulls it away, there’s more blood than what he can handle, and he dizzies, falls onto his side, breathless.

“Harry!” Louis screams, and there’s the sound of him struggling, of him fighting, and then the shout of the person who had been holding him, his voice significantly deeper and slurred together before there’s a thud and another squeak. It’s seconds, or maybe minutes – Harry isn’t sure – until Louis is by his side, dropping to his knees, holding his head. “Harry, m’right here,” he whispers, and his voice is far away. Harry can only see the shadow of his face, his wet hair as water drips onto Harry’s skin. “You got them all, Haz, they’re all just laying here. I’m- hey, are you hurt? Harry, can you talk?”

Harry is struggling to get a word out and he can’t open his eyes once he blinks them closed, but Louis grabs his hand and Harry takes it, guides it, holding it against his wound, fingers wrapped tightly around Louis’ wet ones. Louis presses down on the stab wound, and Harry’s lips part while he lets out a breath, because it hurts, but at the same time, it’s a calming feeling, one that makes him feel like- leaving. His hearing fades out so he can’t hear much of Louis, can’t hear anything but the rain and an occasional rumble of thunder, and even that is gentle. He feels like he could be in bed, on a typical night with Louis half draped over him, half naked, because he’s such a lazy boy, _his_ lazy boy.

“Harry, no. Harry, look at me,” Louis sobs, and his hand brushes Harry’s hair out of his face, which Harry can only feel a little. Harry wants nothing more than to look at him, than to hold him close and kiss the top of his head and tell him that he is happy that he’s back, that he loves him and hasn’t quite ever loved anyone or anything else, but he can’t move. He feels exhausted; he’s ready to sleep. “Look, Harry, I’m going to help you.” Louis pulls his hands away and there’s a ruffling noise that Harry can identify as him taking his clothes off, but it sounds like he is underwater. A few moments later, Louis’ hands are back on his side. “It’s going to stop bleeding, I’m pressin’ down on it. _Je vais faire mieux_. Harry? Look at me! Harry, please! Move. Move!”

                                                                                      **//**

              Harry is still in front of him, motionless like he has been asleep for a while, and Louis pulls his hands away to cover his mouth, his eyes, because he knows what this means, has read it in books and he knows that this is what happened to his father. He sobs into his palms, paying no mind to Harry’s blood on them and how terrible that is in itself, how upsetting and gross, and then he wraps his arms around Harry’s body, resting his head over his heart, and he cannot hear a loud heartbeat like he usually can when they’re laying down in bed, or lounging on the couch, with Harry’s fingers twisting his hair into makeshift curls and Louis drawing shapes on Harry’s chest. Louis’ world is crumbling painfully slow, starting with the moon as it falls out of the sky and plunges everything into actual, inescapable darkness, and he can’t breathe, but he holds Harry to his chest, cupping the side of his face, kissing his cheeks, his lips, his pale forehead.

“Harry, I love you,” he cries, the words getting caught up in his throat until he’s choking on them. He presses his lips to Harry’s again, but Harry doesn’t kiss him back. He doesn’t move. “I love you, I _love you_ , Hazza. _Je t’aime_. _Je t’aime_ , baby.”

                                                                                      **//**

              The last petal falls. The glow of the entire flower fades, and the stem stops twirling. It falls in its casing, propped against the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	16. XV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

              Louis is ready to sit here for the rest of his life, by Harry’s side, because that’s what everyone does in the books. He gets it, gets why they can be so still and so intent on staying by the loves of their lives – he gets it now. He is motionless, and most of the men around them are motionless, too, in a completely different way: they are drunk, unconscious, in pain, or lazy, though Louis thinks that they’re all one grand mixture of everything. But Harry isn’t moving, _Louis’_ Harry, and Louis doesn’t know what to do, so he sits and cries, laying down so he is next to Harry, curling up against his chest like he expects Harry’s arm to wrap around him, for him to open his eyes and smile, to kiss his forehead and ask what he can do to help, telling him ‘ _Louis, you’re acting like the rain clouds, and it’s just as beautiful, but I hate to see you cry_ ’. He hears the rain outside, and this must be how Louis’ mother must have felt, to love the man who’d given her everything, who’d left her with a home and beautiful children who remind her of him in everything that they do.

Louis had wanted to raise a child with Harry, maybe. It had crossed his mind. He’d dreamt about it once before. A little one they’d take in who they would call their own.

Louis is wet and cold, and he is sad, pressing his face into Harry’s shoulder because it smells like him. He continues to whisper to him like he is there, continues to cry, telling Harry how much he loves him, how happy he makes him, that he’s so sorry, that he never wants to leave his side, that, for three months, he never, ever thought of himself as a prisoner. The sky continuously sparks with lightning that Louis can see even with his eyes closed, and after each one, he waits for the crack of thunder that _always_ follows to actually follow, but one of the times, it never does. The sky stays light, like there’s a big candle in the sky or a flashlight brighter than the sun stuck behind the earth, and Louis picks up his head to look out the doors, blinking tears out of his eyes.

The sky looks like it’s torn between nighttime and daytime, between dawn and twilight. The fountain, which is very small in the distance, spurts water that glows just like Louis’ mirror. The grass looks magical, sparkling, and the horse stomps around in it, trotting around, whinnying loudly like she’s happy, like she’s surprised. Liam and Niall, who Louis only spots right then, are looking in from where they stand in the threshold, their faces appearing as upset as Louis feels, though when they notice the brightness and that Louis has temporarily ceased whimpering, they turn their heads, too. Louis sits up, pulling his hands away from Harry so he can scrub at his eyes. It has stopped raining, and it has stopped storming. It’s nothing that Louis has seen before, and it’s beautiful, but he cannot share it with Harry, so he doesn’t see a point to marveling it.

He turns back around so he can curl up against Harry’s chest again, so he can fall asleep and only hope that this is some dream, but Harry is glowing just like the courtyard is. His hair shimmers, and his suit sparkles, and Louis is afraid to touch, so he doesn’t, hesitantly jerking his arms away and wrapping them around himself instead.

He can only watch as Harry rises a few feet into the air, as he spins like a doll that someone is playing with while his head hangs down and limp. His clothes, tattered and scuffed up, hang off of him. His skin gets brighter like he is in the sunlight tanning with the limited temperatures the sun provides this spring, and then he changes, from head to toe: His hair shortens and falls down to his shoulders in wavy curls that look pretty and neat, washed and brushed out and dried by the wind. The scars on his face clear up to reveal smooth, soft skin, and his cheeks are stained rosy and red, like someone’s been pinching them. His eyes stay closed, but his lashes are pretty and long. He gets thinner, his shoulders not as broad and his hands not as huge. His nails clean up and they look like Louis’, short and normal, and he grows brighter, and brighter, until Louis has to scoot away, covering his eyes because it hurts as if he’s looking directly into the sun.

Then it stops.

Harry falls with a thud on the ground, a painful sounding one, his clothes covering him as he crumples with his arms underneath him, and Louis scrambles to his side once more, rolling him over onto his back and ripping apart the suit that is torn up anyway so he can expose his chest. Frantically, he presses his hands along his ribs for the wound that had killed him, that had supposed to have killed him, searching it out, looking for any blood. Nothing is there but Harry’s chest, milky skin and all, as it rises and falls at a stagger, and Louis’ heart leaps up in his throat as he cups the sides of Harry’s face, patting his cheeks gently, gasping on another sob.

“Hazza?” he asks, pushing Harry’s hair back out of his face. He kisses his forehead, making his way down the bridge of his nose and to his lips, where he kisses him quickly, just once. “Harry? Are you–?”

Harry shifts with a grunt, and Louis lets out a long breath, his eyes watering up again. He presses his lips to Harry’s again, keeps them there for several seconds, and then he pulls away because Harry is trying to sit up on his elbows. He gives Harry his space, staring at him in awe while tears continue to run down his cheeks, because Harry is beautiful, much more gorgeous than he’s ever been, even when he had that time away from his beast earlier on during Louis’ stay. He looks younger, and when he opens his eyes, Louis can see that same piercing green, the same green that made Louis’ knees weak, that made it so hard for Louis to hate him. They’re the same eyes that accompanied Harry when he looked normal, when he was a beast, and during every moment in between. They’re just as soft, holding so much potential still.

“Louis,” Harry says, and his voice isn’t as raspy, holding that same charming tone that’s smooth like butter and as lovely as the sun during spring. He is smiling, his eyes wide like he is as disbelieving as Louis is because he is _alive_. “Louis, sweetheart, hi,” he exhales, sitting up completely, and Louis covers his mouth, crawling onto his knees towards Harry. He crashes into his chest, wrapping his free arm around Harry’s shoulders, and he cries into the crook of his neck, some type of laugh mixed into it. Harry holds him back, his arms gentle around him, and he places his nose in Louis’ hair, which has him crying harder.

“You were- Haz, you were- you’d left me,” Louis hiccups, pulling his face away so he can look at Harry again. He is grinning, his teeth nice and straight, his lips plump and red while dimples poke holes into his cheeks. He’s perfect; he is Louis’ prince, the one in the books who carry their damsels in distress like a groom carries his bride, whisking them away. “What happened? You don’t look- you’ve _changed_ ; you were dead, what did you do? Harry, don’t leave me again. Please, I c-can’t have you leave me again. God, I love you, Harry.” Louis’ voice drops low, and he looks down at Harry’s chest. “I love you.”

Harry chuckles, touching the side of Louis’ face, and Louis leans into his touch, sighing gentle as he wipes at his eyes again. “Don’t cry, I’m not going to leave you again,” he says, and his voice is so gentle, so sure, that Louis believes him. He looks so happy, so vibrant, his voice deep and slow, unlike anything that Louis has seen or heard before. “I’m here now. You and me. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to tell me you love me?”

Louis furrows his eyebrows, taking Harry’s hand, which remains on his face, and lacing their fingers together. “How long?”

“Years,” Harry mumbles very literally, and Louis smiles, vision narrowing as his eyes squint up. Harry’s thumb brushes along his eyebrow, smoothing out the wrinkles he always calls Louis out on, the ones that he says are right beside his eyes, like whoever created him had decided to sketch in a few extra lines of happiness. Louis can’t do anything but hold him close, halfway in his lap, with a handful of men they don’t know around them while, slowly, the sky is becoming dark once more. “And I love you, too, Louis.” He leans forward to press his forehead against Louis’, and Louis giggles, letting go of Harry’s hand so he can tangle both of his hands into Harry’s soft curls, pulling at it gently because he knows Harry likes it. He wants to braid it, wants to fall asleep touching running his fingers through it. “I really love you. This is because of you. I’m here because of you.”

“I love you,” Louis repeats. It feels great rolling off of his tongue; he’s never said it and had it mean something quite like this. There’s a different love he shares for Harry than the love he shares with his sisters, his mother, and with Bern. Louis is rightfully in love and Harry is in love back, with _him_ , and they’ve got their story. They have it, from the cover to the very back page, were the words stop and the story ends and the reader is left smiling. “I love you.”

“I love _you_.” Harry smiles. He nudges Louis’ chin up, and kisses him, and Louis kisses him back like he doesn’t know how to do anything else, ignoring the pitter patter of rain outside as it steadily picks back up, and ignoring the snoring of the strangers around them. His teeth clash with Harry’s new ones, and when Harry bites down into his bottom lip, it doesn’t hurt. Louis still laughs.

“I love you.”     

                                                                                      **//**

              When Harry finally rises to his feet, with Louis still hanging onto him with his arm slotted through his own, Harry feels golden, because he is himself again, and he is who Louis needs him to be, not the man – the _beast_ – who used to always scare him off, who used to always make him cry. He can see him whenever he wants to without any ounce of insecurity that would taint their interaction with one another, and he doesn’t have to worry about snapping on this young, beautiful man; he feels gentle and like he is suited specifically for Louis, who is smaller, who, very occasionally, finds himself in trouble that Harry is ready to help him out during. He feels _alive_ for the first time since he’d turned eighteen, and, most importantly, he has _learned_ , and he can guarantee every god there is that this is a mistake he’ll never make again.

He has learned, from Louis, how terrible it is for one to judge someone solely on their appearances, on the wrinkles of their faces and the crookedness of their teeth, their bad smells, and if not for Louis, Harry would have died a monster. Louis saw something in him – what exactly that something was, Harry doesn’t know, but he saw past Harry’s inexplicable scars and broken teeth, his ratty hair and his hostile, defensive way of handling himself. He has no idea how such a quaint, creative boy like Louis did it when he didn’t deserve the few weeks of near torture he’d gone through, but he does know that he owes his life to Louis, and he’s going to spend the rest of that life giving Louis everything he could ever want or need.

Harry drags the unconscious bodies of their trespassers out the front door, rough and showing no care to whether or not he pulls too hard or yanks too crudely, though he has very little anger anymore towards them. He can’t be angry; in fact, he is smiling, because he knows that these men won’t be back, not anytime soon, and he and Louis can live peacefully. They can open their doors, even, to the village – they can clear a path through the woods that everyone can walk along, kids and adults who just want to explore, and if they wander out far enough to get to the castle, then Harry will let them in, because he knows that doing so will please Louis. Louis watches on while Harry drags the men out and dumps them onto the lawn, having pulled away, occupying himself with squatting down beside the men that Harry hasn’t gotten to yet, a small frown on his face as he looks at their wounds, which doesn’t leave each time Harry sneaks a glance at him. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t touch, and when he’s had enough, he wipes his hands on his dirty yellow pants and gives Harry a lopsided smile.

“You really hurt them, Hazza,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry or upset. His cheeks are tinted a pretty, pretty pink, and he reaches out to nudge a heavy man with black hair with his shoe, humming. Everything is calm, with the rain steady outside, and this isn’t the most romantic thing to be doing, not at all, but Harry thinks it defines him and Louis nicely. “I’m glad. They tried to hurt you.”

“Did any of them hurt you?” Harry asks, pushing his hair out of his face, and it feels different, because it’s clean, lacks that constantly greasy feeling he always hated. He approaches Zayn, who might as well be dead, and Harry wishes he were, but he’s breathing, Harry can tell as he tucks his hands under Zayn’s armpits and lifts him up so he can drag him outside. He won’t be back, either, if Harry had gauged his egotistical ways properly. He won’t want to be seen by anyone as the one who’d been roughed up so badly that it took him ages to come to. “That one man who had you- what happened to him?”

“Niall _burned him_ ,” Louis giggles, and as if on cue, Harry can hear Niall shouting, as well as Liam. They push past Harry as he’s dragging Zayn out, and Harry is startled, because he’s actually pushed with a heavy body colliding into his own, and he turns his head to glare and to investigate.

They’re human from head to toe, dressed in short grey shorts and positively naked aside from that, but they’re there: Niall, with his blonde hair and the beginnings of a rough beard; his long, thin legs and slim frame. He’s barefoot, and he looks at his own hands with a baby faced grin plastered onto his lips, his cheeks wet with rain just like every other inch of his skin. Liam stands beside him, looking himself over, because he’s no longer a one and a half foot tall clock; he is all man, broad and muscular, hardly having aged from the last time Harry had seen him as a human.

Harry looks back towards Louis, smiling with his eyebrows raised, and Louis has a hand covering his mouth, eyes roaming the both of them, which Harry doesn’t take in any wrong way because he is surprised, too. Louis hasn’t seen them as anything but a clock and a candlestick, though, so when he hops over the two bodies left sprawled out on the carpet, Harry chuckles and finishes off with Zayn, letting him roll down the front steps until he joins his other mates in the rain, in the cold, on the concrete, unmoving still.

“ _Liam_ , oh my God,” Louis breathes, and when Harry is back inside, he sees Louis with his arms tight around Liam’s neck, with Liam holding him back, laughing into his hair. They sway together, with Louis up on his toes, and a few feet away, Niall is still looking himself over, pulling the front his pants back and looking down into his crotch. “You’re so tall,” Louis gushes, “you were a _clock_! You had little ticking hands for a nose. Harry, he’s a human now! And _Niall_.” Louis moves to hug Niall next, which distracts Niall from looking at his own genitals, and Harry can’t stop smiling as he hauls he last two men out the doors, closing the doors up afterwards even though it’s splintered and doesn’t hold together quite right. He’s got his best friends back, and the love of his life has saved him and is _his_ and as he looks around, he can see more of the staff as they gather around the top of the staircase, dressed in their work clothes. He sees men and women, the same elders who always swept the bedrooms and dusted the vases. They examine themselves over, their muffled whispers carrying down each step until Harry hears them loud and clear.

Louis notices them too after a while, settling back against Harry’s side with his hands wrapped around himself as he looks up, and he appears genuinely surprised and maybe even a little bit overwhelmed. He starts to laugh, and then he takes Harry by the collar of his shirt, pulling them down so that they’re level.

He kisses him again, wet and heavy, and the staff starts cheering, while Harry gropes his hands down until he reaches Louis’ thighs, hoisting him up and guiding his legs around his waist.

                                                                                      **//**

              Louis is home by morning, just as his mother is waking up. Harry had sent him home with a kiss a good while after Louis had met everyone, long after he’d played a game of hide-and-seek with Lux, who was an actual little girl now, with lovely blonde hair and quick feet, a tiny body and a sweet voice that hadn’t changed a bit. He’d met everyone there was to meet; Victoria, a bigger, taller woman with a big chest and an even bigger smile, who’d cleaned Louis up, who had found him clothes to put on that weren’t tattered and dirty. He’d thanked everyone who helped him even the slightest bit, who’d helped plant the flowers and make his bed every morning. He couldn’t stop gushing, still can’t stop, and with a promise that he’d be back tonight, or early tomorrow, he had been sent home on the horse that’s now his, the horse he’d quickly named Céleste.

When he’d left, the men who’d tried to hurt Harry were gone, and Louis has very little idea as to where they are, but he knows they’ll be back because they’ve got wives and little children. Zayn has no one, not really, and Louis is happy that Zayn probably won’t be pursuing him any longer, not now that he knows that Louis has Harry, and Harry has Louis.

Louis allows Céleste to roam about in front of his house, eating the hay that’s surrounding the small cabin, and he enters it, giggling as Rover dances around his feet before rushing outside to investigate the horse, who whinnies and stomps about but looks completely disinterested and unbothered otherwise. Louis heads straight to the kitchen, cooking up a turkey and vegetable stew that will give his mother the nutrition and energy he needs. He cuts up an apple and puts the kettle on the stove so he can make her mint tea. While the stew is simmering and the water is boiling, Louis cleans up, putting his sisters’ dolls in their proper places and sweeping the floor. Along the way, he manages to stir one of his sisters up, and Félicité stumbles from down the hall, rubbing her eyes.

Louis thinks it’s a nice surprise, although a rather startling one, and his sister gasps as soon as she’s awake enough to see him properly, breaking out at a run before she’s crashing into Louis’ chest. Louis drops his broom and holds her close, and it isn’t long before she’s screaming out for their other siblings, calling them, telling them that Louis is finally home.

Half an hour later, after enough crying and smiling, Louis gives his sisters the stew to eat while he makes a bowl for his mother, fixing a cup of her tea before he heads to her room to give it to her. She doesn’t look much better than she had just hours before, in the dead of the night, but she can sit up and she doesn’t look as terrible as Louis knows she must have been a day or two ago. There’s a little more light in her eyes, and she’s smiling again, holding Louis’ hands tight. She cries and Louis can’t reassure her enough that he’s here now, that he won’t ever leave again, that he even has someone who will take care of him – all of them – now.

She’s confused, and she opens her mouth to ask what Louis means, but Louis carefully guides a spoonful of soup into her mouth and chuckles. “It’s not Zayn,” he promises. His sisters come to stand in the doorway, grinning still, soup dribbling halfway down their shirts. Louis can’t help but to think about how much they’re going to love Harry, just like Louis does. “Zayn won’t bother me anymore,” he insists. He starts to blush. “I fell in love, Mum- with someone else. And- and he loves me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think, love you all lots x.


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is the last chapter! I'm so very proud of this work of mine, actually, and I'm so thankful to absolutely any and everyone who's read :) I hope you enjoy this last chapter and I wish you all the very, very, very best xx.

              The mornings were always loud, especially during the weekends, when little girls would run up and down the halls, when they would be laughing, waking Harry up in a less-than-calming way. Their brother was _sleeping_ with a _boy_ – that was Louis’ explanation as to why they crept around every morning, giggling and knocking very lightly on the door, teasing, playing. Louis would tell him that they would stop eventually, that they were only being silly because he was _sleeping_ next to a _boy_ he _loved_ , and Harry would always say that it was okay that they knocked, even if it woke him up, and he would hold Louis close and tickle his fingers up and down his back because as long as the girls knew how in love they were, he was just fine with them knocking and laughing outside the doors. Every weekend morning he would open his eyes, and most of the time, Louis was right there beside him, stirring awake on his own because of his sisters, or he was at the foot of their bed, exchanging his pajamas for his clothes for the day.

“Wake up, Hazza,” he always said with a smile, crawling up along the bed so he could meet a still drowsy Harry, always kissing his forehead before Harry took hold of his chin and brought their lips together completely. “Help the girls and I make breakfast, will you? You can cut up the fruit. Make it all _handsome_ like you.”

Things were good, better than anything Harry could have ever imagined. He had Louis with him every night, and his family had moved into the too-quiet mansion, in their own rooms, with bigger beds and wardrobes for everything they owned. It had taken a lot of explaining and a lot of apologizing, as soon as Louis’ mother got well enough so that she was practically back to normal. Harry had been given question after questions, ones that made him blush, ones that drew him to a loss of words.

“Are you making my son happy?” Jay asked off the bat a week and a half after Harry was fully, undeniably human again, and she’d asked that question when Harry had first met her, after walking into Louis’ town with Louis’ arm wrapped around his own, a wary smile on his face when Louis introduced him to everyone he knew in the town, like Bern, who Louis explained to be the bookkeeper who got him into reading since the very moment he learned how to spell his name. Many people asked where Louis had been all of this time, and Louis would shrug it off.

“Away,” he’d smile, and his fingers would subtly tighten around Harry’s arm. “I’ve been away, but I’m back and I feel better than ever.”

“I think I am,” had been Harry’s answer to Jay after he’d spent a good thirty seconds awkwardly clearing his throat, and he didn’t think the answer was good enough; it didn’t look to be good enough in Jay’s eyes, not as her eyebrows raised and she sipped at her tea. Harry was a little afraid to touch his own, so he simply kept stirring his spoon in it like he was about to drink it any minute. “I’m trying my hardest to make him happy,” he’d tried again. “I’d like to spend the rest of my life making sure he’s happy.” He’d checked to see when Louis was coming back then, because Louis was always good at smiling and causing Jay’s stress to fade right in that instant, but he was with his sisters, sitting out in the yard with a book while his sisters played around.

Jay hummed, and Harry guessed that that was good enough for her to pass him off. “Have you made love to him?” she asked next, and Harry dug his fingernails into the wooden table, clearing his throat, for his mouth suddenly felt very dry.

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured, looking down, breaking the eye contact because he couldn’t do it, couldn’t look up at Louis’ mother with a blush on his cheeks and his heart hammering all the way up in his eyes.

Thankfully, however, she’d let the question be swept away after a clear of her own throat. “You’re not to hurt him, or I’m going to have to see to it that you never walk again.”

“Of course not, Ms. Tomlinson. I won’t hurt him, _je promets_.”

“He really adores you, I can tell.”

Harry smiled. “I really adore him, too. He’s the love of my life. He saved me.”

                                                                                      **//**

“You know,” Jay sighed three months later, in the hot weather of late July, sitting with Harry in the living room, looking outside of one of the great windows looking out into the courtyard. It was much too warm to put on the fire, but they still had blankets around their laps and tea in their hands. Louis was off taking a cool bath, and Harry was supposed to join him in just a few moments, but Jay didn’t know that, nor did she need to. “Louis’ always been a massive fan of books, you know? Fairytales especially. He’s crazy about them.”

Harry recalled three months of being read to, of reading Louis’ fond, happy eyes and listening to his lovely voice. He knew just how crazy Louis was about them. “I know,” he whispered. Louis was waiting for him in the bath, probably, soaped up and smelling lovely, ready for Harry to hold him, to smell the lilac on his shoulder and the rose in his hair. “I’d like to give him one. The fairy tale he’s always wanted.”

                                                                                      **//**

              A year later, underneath blossoming trees and the warm, welcoming sun, Louis rose up on his toes and kissed Harry, short and sweet, one hand cupping his cheek while the other one grasped his shoulder, holding him close, and Harry wanted just that. Around them, a handful, just a handful, of Louis’ (and now his own) friends and neighbors clapped, cheered, while the little ones threw flower petals they’d found on the forest floor. The staff from the mansion was there, some of them continuing to work for Harry, though with an extraordinary amount of pay, and some of them choosing to do different things, where Harry still reimbursed them for his troubles over the years. Liam and Niall stood at Harry’s side, pulling Louis into a hug as soon as he stepped away from Harry’s lips, kissing his cheek, congratulating him.

It wasn’t an official wedding, because the priest in Louis’ hometown wasn’t for the two of them being together, but it was a real wedding in their hearts, with wooden chairs for the guests and chirping birds and rings made especially for them by the jeweler, who sat in the front row beside Bern with a smile on his heavily bearded face. It was a real wedding because Louis was happy, because he was bouncing on his heels as he held Harry’s hand, a smile very, very wide on his face, his tailored suit as straight as an arrow.

They were happy. They were good, great – perfect.

“I love you, Louis,” Harry said with a smile, squeezing Louis’ fingers in his own. He knew this hand now, how the fingers shook when he was cold or antsy, and how they got sweaty when he was uncomfortable. He knew the lifelines in his palm and the few freckles that riddled the back of his hand. The only difference from every other time Harry had held Louis’ hand and now was that he could feel the ring on his fourth finger pressing against his own knuckle. There had never been a ring there before. “I do love you.”

“I do love you, too, Hazza,” Louis responded with a giggle, and he turned to kiss Harry again, and once more, everyone started clapping.

When Harry pulled away, everything was blue and pink: blue like Louis’ bright, bright eyes, blue like the sky. Blue, unlike the mood of everyone who had come to see them. It was pink like Louis’ kissable lips, like the color his whole body turned when Harry kissed every inch of him, pink like the flower petals that were still being thrown at him. They were beautiful, and they were Harry’s favorite colors.

                                                                                      **//**

              There was a knock on the door. It was late, and Harry mulled over who it could possibly be as he slipped on a jacket, ready to brace the cool air of November. He told Louis to stay in the kitchen, to finish his tea, because he’d get it – no big deal.

Upon opening the door, Harry saw a woman, adorning grey skin and wrinkles by her eyes, a hunched back, a ragged coat draped over her shoulders. When she breathed, her breath came out in a puff of vapor and swirled around them.

“Hi,” Harry said tentatively, looking up at the clouds of the sky. They were dark; it was about to rain. “May I help you?”

Before the woman could answer, and just as she was opening her mouth to speak, revealing crooked teeth and a yellow-ish tongue, Louis settled behind Harry, peering over his shoulder, ignoring Harry’s request to stay back in the kitchen.

“Oh, you poor thing!” he murmured, squeezing past Harry to get to the woman, bracing his arm around her shoulder. He looked up at Harry, smiled once, sweet and pretty and perfect, before looking back down at the woman, helping her inside. “It’s so cold out here, isn’t it? Come inside; I’ve just made some tea. I’m Louis and that’s my husband, Harry.”

Once they’re inside, with Louis already walking ever-so-slowly to the kitchen to match the pace of the old woman, Harry closed the door, locking it shut and keeping out the cool air that always gave Louis gooseflesh that Harry always had to rub down.

“Haz!” Louis called; his voice was already bustling, and Harry could hear gears churning in his head all the way from the foyer, “go see if we’ve good bed sheets in one of the spare rooms, please? Somewhere warm.”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, love. Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much again :)

**Author's Note:**

> Your kudos and opinions mean very much to me :) I'd love to hear what you have to say! Much love xx.


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